e left and took the trail which wound like a snake
into the foothills. Clinging warily to the level where choice was
given him, trotting where the way was rough, mile after mile he covered
till even Weary's patience showed signs of weakening.

Just then Glory turned, where a wire gate lay flat upon the ground,
crossed a pebbly creek and galloped stiffly up to the very steps of a
squat, vine-covered ranch-house where, like the Discontented Pendulum
in the fable, he suddenly stopped.

"Damn you, Glory--I could kill yuh for this!" gritted Weary, and slid
reluctantly from the saddle. For while the place seemed deserted, it
was not. There was a girl.

She lay in a hammock; sprawled would come nearer describing her
position. She had some magazines scattered around upon the porch, and
her hair hung down to the floor in a thick, dark braid. She was
dressed in a dark skirt and what, to Weary's untrained, masculine eyes,
looked like a pink gunny sack. In reality it was a kimono. She
appeared to be asleep.

Weary saw a chance of leading Glory quietly to the corral before she
woke. There he could borrow a bridle and ride back whence he came, and
he could explain about the bridle to Joe Meeker in town. Joe was
always good about lending things, anyway. He gathered the fragments of
the bit in one hand and clucked under his breath, in an agony lest his
spurs should jingle.

Glory turned upon him his beautiful, brown eyes, reproachfully
questioning.

Weary pulled steadily. Glory stretched neck and nose obediently, but
as to feet, they were down to stay.

Weary glanced anxiously toward the hammock and perspired, then stood
back and whispered language it would be a sin to repeat. Glory,
listening with unruffled calm, stood perfectly still, like a red statue
in the sunshine.

The face of the girl was hidden under one round, loose-sleeved arm.
She did not move. A faint breeze, freshening in spasmodic puffs,
seized upon the hammock, and set it swaying gently.

"Oh, damn you, Glory!" whispered Weary through his teeth. But Glory,
accustomed to being damned since he was a yearling, displayed
absolutely no interest. Indeed, he seemed inclined to doze there in
the sun.

Taking his hat--his best hat--from his head, he belabored Glory
viciously over the jaws with it; silently except for the soft thud and
slap of felt on flesh. And the mood of him was as near murder as Weary
could come. Glory had been belabored with wo