ood to me," he grinned, and at
a shallow pool, paused to remove the last trace of mud from his chaps,
wash his face and hands, box his hat into the proper peak, and jerk the
brilliant scarf into place.

"She can rest up here till I find Win," he said aloud, and stepped into
the valley, trying not to limp as he picked his way among the scattered
rocks. "Sheep outfit," he muttered, as he noted the close-cropped grass,
and the stacked panels of a lambing pen. Then, rounding a thicket of
scrub willows, he came suddenly upon the outfit, itself.

He halted abruptly, as his eyes took in every detail of the scene. A
little dirt roofed cabin of logs, a rambling straw thatched sheep shed,
a small log barn, and a pole corral in which two horses dozed dreamily.
The haystacks were behind the barn, and even as he looked, a generous
forkful of hay rolled over the top of the corral fence, and the horses
crossed over and thrust their muzzles into its fragrant depths. A
half-dozen weak old ewes snipped half-heartedly at the short buffalo
grass, and three or four young lambs frisked awkwardly about the
door-yard on their ungainly legs.

Another forkful of hay rolled over the corral fence, and making his way
around the barn, the Texan came abruptly face to face with Miss Janet
McWhorter. The girl stood, pitchfork in hand, upon a ledge of the
half-depleted haystack and surveyed him calmly, as a startled expression
swiftly faded from her large, blue-black eyes. "Well you're the second
one this morning; what do _you_ want?"

The Texan noticed that the voice was rich, with low throaty tones and
also he noticed that it held a repellent note. There was veiled
hostility--even contempt in the peculiar emphasis of the "you." He swept
the Stetson from his head: "I'm afoot," he answered, simply, "I'd like
to borrow a horse."

The girl jabbed the fork into the hay, gathered her skirts about her,
and slipped gracefully from the stack. She walked over and stood
directly before him. "This is McWhorter's outfit," she announced, as if
the statement were a good and sufficient answer to his plea.

The cowboy looking straight into the blue-black eyes, detected a faint
gleam of surprise in their depths, that her statement apparently meant
nothing to him. He smiled: "Benton's my name--Tex Benton, range foreman
of the Y Bar. And, is this Mrs. McWhorter?"

"The Y Bar!" exclaimed the girl, and Tex noticed that the gleam and
surprise hardened into a glance