ly timed, as perfectly
executed.

The girl lay breathless in the arms of the man, her heart beating
against his, her face buried in his shoulder. She was dazed, half
fainting from the reaction of her fear. The next she remembered
clearly was being lowered into the arms of her father.

He held her tight, his face tortured with emotion. She was the very
light of his soul, and she had shaved death by a hair's breadth. A
miracle had saved her, but he would never forget the terror that had
gripped him. Naturally, shaken, as he was, his relief found vent in
scolding.

"I told you to stay by the car, honey. But you're so willful. You've
got to have your own way. Thank God you're safe. If . . . if . . ."
His voice broke as he thought of what had so nearly been.

The girl snuggled closer to him, her arms round his neck. His anxiety
touched her nearly, and tears flooded her eyes.

"I know, Dad. I . . . I'll be good."

A young man descended from the car, handsome, trim, and well got up.
He had been tailored by the best man's outfitter in New York. Nobody
on Broadway could order a dinner better than he. The latest dances he
could do perfectly. He had the reputation of knowing exactly the best
thing to say on every occasion. Now he proceeded to say it.

"Corking bit of riding--never saw better. I'll give you my hand on
that, my man."

The cowpuncher found a bunch of manicured fingers in his rough brown
paw. He found something else, for after the pink hand had gone there
remained a fifty-dollar bill. He looked at it helplessly for a moment;
then, beneath the brown outdoor tan, a flush of anger beat into his
face. Without a word he leaned forward and pressed the note into the
mouth of the bronco.

The buckskin knew its master for a very good friend. If he gave it
something to eat--well, there was no harm in trying it once. The
buckskin chewed placidly for a few seconds, decided that this was a
practical joke, and ejected from its mouth a slimy green pulp that had
recently been a treasury note.

The father stammered his thanks to the rescuer of the girl. "I don't
know what I can ever do to let you know . . . I don't know how I can
ever pay you for saving . . ."

"Forget it!" snapped the brown man curtly. He was an even-tempered
youth, as genial and friendly as a half-grown pup, but just now the
word "pay" irritated him as a red rag does a sulky bull.

"If there's anything at all I can do for you-