scar which ran from his temple across the
cheekbone. Marianne glanced away, embarrassed, as people are when
another reveals a dark and hidden portion of his character.

"You see?" said Cordova, "you would not be happy in the corral with him,
eh?"

He rolled a cigarette with smiling lips as he spoke, but all the time
his black eyes burned at the chestnut. He seemed to Marianne half child
and half old man, and both parts of him were evil now that she could
guess the whole story. Cordova campaigned through the country, racing
his horse at fairs or for side bets. For two reasons he kept the animal
systematically undernourished: one was that he was thereby able to get
better odds; the other was that only on a weakened Alcatraz would he
trust himself. At this she did not wonder for never had she seen such
almost human viciousness of temper in a dumb beast.

"As for running, senorita," continued Cordova, "sometimes he does very
well--yes, very well. But when he is dull the spurs are nothing to him."

He indicated a criss-crossing of scars on the flank of the stallion and
Marianne, biting her lips, realized that she must leave at once if she
wished to avoid showing her contempt, and her anger.

She was a mile down the road and entering the main street of
Glosterville before her temper cooled. She decided that it was best to
forget both Alcatraz and his master: they were equally matched in
devilishness. Her last hope of seeing the mares beaten was gone, and
with it all chance of buying them at a reasonable figure; for no matter
what the potentialities of Alcatraz in his present starved condition he
could not compare with the bays. She thought of Lady Mary with the
sunlight rippling over her shoulder muscles. Certainly Alcatraz would
never come within whisking distance of her tail!

CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF DAVID

Having reached this conclusion, the logical thing, of course, was for
Marianne to pack and go without waiting to see the race or hear the
bidding for the Coles horses; but she could not leave. Hope is as blind
as love. She had left the ranch saying to her father and to the foreman,
Lew Hervey: "The bank account is shrinking, but ideals are worth more
than facts and I _shall_ improve the horses on this place." It was a
rather too philosophical speech for one of her years, but Oliver Jordan
had merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled another cigarette; the
crushed leg which, for the past three years, had m