e brain responded to each new impression.

She sat comfortably ensconced in the back seat of the old, battered red
coach, surrounded by cushions for protection from continual jouncing,
as the Jehu in charge urged his restive mules down the desolate valley
of the Bear Water. Her cheeks were flushed, her wide-open eyes filled
with questioning, her pale fluffy hair frolicking with the breeze, as
pretty a picture of young womanhood as any one could wish to see. Nor
was she unaware of this fact. During the final stage other long
journey she had found two congenial souls, sufficiently picturesque to
harmonize with her ideas of wild Western romance.

These two men were lolling in the less comfortable seat opposite,
secretly longing for a quiet smoke outside, yet neither willing to
desert this Eastern divinity to his rival. The big fellow, his arm run
carelessly through the leather sling, his bare head projecting half out
of the open window, was Jack Moffat, half-owner of the "Golden Rule,"
and enjoying a well-earned reputation as the most ornate and artistic
liar in the Territory. For two hours he had been exercising his talent
to the full, and merely paused now in search of some fresh inspiration,
holding in supreme and silent contempt the rather feeble imitations of
his less-gifted companion. It is also just to add that Mr. Moffat
personally formed an ideal accompaniment to his vivid narrations of
adventure, and he was fully aware of the fact that Miss Spencer's
appreciative eyes wandered frequently in his direction, noting his
tanned cheeks, his long silky mustache, the somewhat melancholy gleam
of his dark eyes--hiding beyond doubt some mystery of the past, the
nature of which was yet to be revealed. Mr. Moffat, always strong
along this line of feminine sympathy, felt newly inspired by these
evidences of interest in his tales, and by something in Miss Spencer's
face which bespoke admiration.

The fly in the ointment of this long day's ride, the third party, whose
undesirable presence and personal knowledge of Mr. Moffat's past career
rather seriously interfered with the latter's flights of imagination,
was William McNeil, foreman of the "Bar V" ranch over on Sinsiniwa
Creek. McNeil was not much of a talker, having an impediment in his
speech, and being a trifle bashful in the presence of a lady. But he
caught the eye,--a slenderly built, reckless fellow, smoothly shaven,
with a strong chin and bright laughing ey