the pasture
to-morrow when the boys are breakin' horses. Your hair's kind of wavy,
I notice, but it will put crimps in it to hear Bill Lightfoot or some
of them Sunflower stiffs when they git bucked onto a rock pile. And
say, if you call yourself a rider I can give you a snake for to-day."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Creede," answered Miss Kitty, bowing low as she
left the table. "Its tail, if it chanced to be a rattler, would be
most acceptable, I am sure, and I might make a belt out of its skin.
But for riding purposes I prefer a real, gentle little horse. Now
hurry up, and I'll be dressed in half an hour."

Ten minutes later Creede rode up to the house, leading a sober gray
for the judge, but for Kitty Bonnair he had the prettiest little
calico-horse in the bunch, a pony painted up with red and yellow and
white until he looked like a three-color chromo. Even his eye was
variegated, being of a mild, pet-rabbit blue, with a white circle
around the orbit; and his name, of course, was Pinto. To be sure, his
face was a little dished in and he showed other signs of his scrub
Indian blood, but after Creede had cinched on the new stamped-leather
saddle and adjusted the ornate hackamore and martingale, Pinto was the
sportiest-looking horse outside of a Wild West show.

There was a long wait then, while Diana completed her preparations
for the hunt; but when Kitty Bonnair, fully apparelled, finally
stepped through the door Creede reeled in the saddle, and even Rufus
Hardy gasped. There was nothing immodest about her garb--in fact, it
was very correct and proper--but not since the Winship girls rode
forth in overalls had Hidden Water seen its like. Looking very trim
and boyish in her khaki riding breeches, Kitty strode forth
unabashed, rejoicing in her freedom. A little scream of delight
escaped her as she caught sight of the calico-pony; she patted his
nose a moment, inquired his name, and then, scorning all assistance,
swung lightly up into the saddle. No prettier picture had ever been
offered to the eye; so young, so supple and strong, with such a
wealth of dark, wavy hair, and, withal, so modest and honestly happy.
But, somehow, Jefferson Creede took the lead and rode with his
eyes cast down, lest they should be dazzled by the vision. Besides,
Jeff had been raised old-fashioned, and Golden Gate Park is a long,
long ways, chronologically, from Hidden Water.

As the procession passed away up the canyon, with Creede in sober
co