essed to you; an' I'll bet you two bits I know what's in it," he
said.

Alfred unfolded the letter, read it, and then looked at Stillwell.

"Bill, you're a pretty good guesser. Gene's made for the border. He sent
the horse by somebody, no names mentioned, and wants my sister to have
him if she will accept."

"Any mention of Danny Mains?" asked the rancher.

"Not a word."

"Thet's bad. Gene'd know about Danny if anybody did. But he's a
close-mouthed cuss. So he's sure hittin' for Mexico. Wonder if Danny's
goin', too? Wal, there's two of the best cowmen I ever seen gone to hell
an' I'm sorry."

With that he bowed his head and, grumbling to himself, went into the
house. Alfred lifted the reins over the head of the horse and, leading
him to Madeline, slipped the knot over her arm and placed the letter in
her hand.

"Majesty, I'd accept the horse," he said. "Stewart is only a cowboy now,
and as tough as any I've known. But he comes of a good family. He was a
college man and a gentleman once. He went to the bad out here, like so
many fellows go, like I nearly did. Then he had told me about his sister
and mother. He cared a good deal for them. I think he has been a source
of unhappiness to them. It was mostly when he was reminded of this in
some way that he'd get drunk. I have always stuck to him, and I would do
so yet if I had the chance. You can see Bill is heartbroken about Danny
Mains and Stewart. I think he rather hoped to get good news. There's
not much chance of them coming back now, at least not in the case of
Stewart. This giving up his horse means he's going to join the rebel
forces across the border. What wouldn't I give to see that cowboy break
loose on a bunch of Greasers! Oh, damn the luck! I beg your pardon,
Majesty. But I'm upset, too. I'm sorry about Stewart. I liked him
pretty well before he thrashed that coyote of a sheriff, Pat Hawe, and
afterward I guess I liked him more. You read the letter, sister, and
accept the horse."

In silence Madeline bent her gaze from her brother's face to the letter:

Friend Al,--I'm sending my horse down to you because I'm going away and
haven't the nerve to take him where he'd get hurt or fall into strange
hands.

If you think it's all right, why, give him to your sister with my
respects. But if you don't like the idea, Al, or if she won't have him,
then he's for you. I'm not forgetting your kindness to me, even if I
never showed it. And, Al, my horse has never f