After that Hilda felt that there was nothing for it but to arrive among the lights and people at Grainger’s before her escort. They would have a late moon, but the night had begun to darken. In the trail there was small danger from dog holes, and her pony was carrying less weight than his. Still she thought longingly of a short-cut as she heard swift hoofs behind her, and leaned down, using voice and touch of the heel, with a good horsewoman’s objection to punishing her horse. It was Fayte’s temper which won the race for her, after all; he slashed his pony with the quirt, and it began to buck, wheeling head for tail. By the time he had it settled once more into its pace, Hilda was nearly a mile ahead of him. She slowed up when she felt safe to do so, and even waited for Fayte at the edge of the crowd outside the Grainger yard, so that they rode through the gate together. As he lifted her from her pony, she said to him in an undertone, “I won, but you had no right to say what you did—we weren’t racing for any stakes.” “Oh, no, you didn’t win,” Fayte laughed at her. “That race isn’t over. We’ll finish it on the way home.” And at that moment Maybelle rode in—alone. “I like the way you two ran off and left me,” she said as she got down from her pony without her brother’s assistance. “Who was that with you?” Hilda asked in her nervousness. “There wasn’t any one with me,” Maybelle returned placidly. “You and Fayte rode off like two wild Indians. I wasn’t going to run my pony lame—I need him to ride home on.” Maybelle was talking more than usual, also she looked wonderfully lit up and excited, beyond what just going to a dance accounted for. “Excuse me I—I thought there was some one with you,” Hilda faltered out, embarrassed, glancing from Maybelle to Fayte, who only grinned sardonically and didn’t say a word. “Well, there wasn’t.” Maybelle gave her a swift sidelong look. “I don’t care to ride races and get myself all hot and mussed up when I’m going to a dance. Come on, Hilda.” And she led the way to the house. At a table beside the main entrance of the great rambling adobe structure Miles Grainger was stationed, repeating with the ingratiating urgency of an auctioneer, “Gentlemen, will you kindly lay your guns on this here table? A heavy six-shooter ain’t a thing to be dancing in, nohow. If it should ketch on one of the ladies’ dresses and go off, it might take somebody’s toe. And if we have any—little discussion—as folks is liable to do at a dance, you gentlemen will get along better without your guns. Take ’em off, boys. Take ’em off.” There was already a goodly pile of weapons before him, and as Hilda’s amused eyes studied the heap, she noted that Grainger was addressing himself rather pointedly to her escort, and that the big fellow bent and whispered to Fayte, a persuading hand on his shoulder.