which stood near the bank of the
creek. Creede was stirring the contents of a frying-pan with a huge
iron spoon, and Rufus was cooking strips of meat on a stick which he
turned above a bed of coals. There was no sign of hurry or anxiety
about their preparations; they seemed to be conversing amiably of
other things. Presently Hardy picked up a hooked stick, lifted the
cover from the Dutch oven, and dumped a pile of white biscuits upon a
greasy cloth. Then, still deep in their talk, they filled their plates
from the fry-pan, helped themselves to meat, wrapped the rest of the
bread in the cloth, and sat comfortably back on their heels, eating
with their fingers and knives.

It was all very simple and natural, but somehow she had never thought
of men in that light before. They were so free, so untrammelled and
self-sufficient; yes, and so barbarous, too. Rufus Hardy, the poet,
she had known--quiet, soft-spoken, gentle, with dreamy eyes and a
doglike eagerness to please--but, lo! here was another Rufus, still
gentle, but with a stern look in his eyes which left her almost
afraid--and those two lost years lay between. How he must have changed
in all that time! The early morning was Kitty's time for meditation
and good resolutions, and she resolved then and there to be nice to
Rufus, for he was a man and could not understand.

As the sound of voices came from the house Jefferson Creede rose up
from his place and stalked across the open, rolling and swaying in his
high-heeled boots like a huge, woolly bear.

"Well, Judge," he said, after throwing a mountain of wood on the fire
as a preliminary to cooking breakfast for his guests, "I suppose now
you're here you'd like to ride around a little and take stock of what
you've got. The boys will begin comin' in for the _roder_ to-day, and
after to-morrow I'll be pretty busy; but if you say so I'll jest ketch
up a gentle horse, and show you the upper range before the work
begins."

"Oh, won't you take me, too?" cried Kitty, skipping in eagerly. "I've
got the nicest saddle--and I bet I can ride any horse you've got."

She assumed a cowboy-like strut as she made this assertion, shaking
her head in a bronco gesture which dashed the dark hair from her eyes
and made her look like an unbroken thoroughbred. Never in all his
life, even in the magazine pictures of stage beauties which form a
conspicuous mural decoration in those parts, had Creede seen a woman
half so charming, but even i