were rumors of gambling and hard drinking at French's ranch.

"Well, I'll take you home," the boy said. "You can ride my pony. He's on
a rope a mile from here. But I'll have to hang up this buck, or the
coyotes will chew him."

He found two small saplings close together, bent them down, trimmed them
and lashed their tops. Over these he placed the tied legs of the buck.
With a little search he found a long dry pole. With this he had a
tripod. As he hoisted with the pole the spring of the saplings raised
the buck, which dangled clear, out of reach of all four-footed
marauders. The girl watched him, wide-eyed. To her it seemed a
marvellously clever piece of engineering.

"Well, now we'll be going," the boy announced. He started at his
ordinary pace, but reduced it immediately because she seemed very tired.
Coming to a creek she hesitated and stopped.

"Won't you wash your face and hands, please?" she said.

The boy stared at her, but washed obediently. So did she, and began to
dry her face with a tiny handkerchief at which the boy cast a glance of
contempt. He drew forth his own, which was two feet square, and
originally had been figured in red and yellow, but unfortunately the two
colors had run together.

"Here, take this," he said. But the girl looked at the variegated square
suspiciously.

"No, thank you. I'm afraid it's not san--sanitary."

"It ain't--what?" the boy queried.

"I mean it's not clean."

"Sure it's clean," he returned indignantly. "You're mighty particular,
seems to me." Struck by a sudden thought he took the remains of his
lunch from his pocket and opened it, exposing four sadly crushed
doughnuts. "I don't s'pose you'd eat these, would you? Maybe they ain't
sanitary enough."

But the girl who had had nothing to eat since morning, eyed the
delicacies longingly.

"I--I'll take one, thank you."

"Eat the bunch," said the boy generously. "I've had all I want. Sit down
and rest. There's no rush."

The girl sat down, munching the crushed doughnuts with keen enjoyment,
while the boy stretched on the grass, his head pillowed in his locked
hands watched her curiously. Looking up she met his gaze.

"They're awfully good," she said. "Did your mother make them?"

"My mother is dead. Jean made 'em. She's my sister."

"What is your name, please?"

"My full name is Angus Struan Mackay."

"How do you spell it?"

"M-a-c-k-a-y."

"But k-a-y spells 'K'. Why do you pronounce your name 'McKi'?"