The outburst was so sudden that young Thurston was cowed and attempted no reply. But as Willoughby rode off he sent after him a look of sullen and resentful hatred. Two or three of the cowboys, who really were good friends of Dick Willoughby, but were nevertheless not above fawning for the favor of the heir to the great rancho, indicated that they were on Marshall’s side. “Guess two can play at the hammering game,” remarked one. “He don’t come any of his rough-house business over you, Marshall, while I’m around,” affirmed another, pugnaciously. But the young man, still without uttering a word, turned gloomily away and started his pony in the direction of home. “Guess he feels like another drink,” grinned an irreverent youth. “Hell,” exclaimed an elderly man, the blacksmith at the rancho, “if the Thurston family don’t beat the band for quarrels and bloody feuds!” But just then a bunch of cattle broke from the main herd and the group of cowboys dispersed in a galloping scamper. Munson and the young ladies, engrossed in their light conversation, knew nothing of this unpleasant episode. They were now discussing the date of the projected visit to the home of Mr. Ricardo Robles among the oaks above La Siesta. It was decided to fix it for the first Sunday after the cattle muster was completed, when Dick Willoughby would be free to make one of the party. “But hold a moment,” exclaimed the lieutenant suddenly, “unless I’m to be court-martialled for absence without leave, I must take the train East next Saturday, or—or—” His eyes fixed on Grace, he hesitated to complete the alternative. “Or what?” she inquired. “Follow Dick’s advice and send in my resignation.” As he spoke he thrust a hand into his breast pocket and drew forth a letter, sealed, addressed and stamped, all ready for the mail. “I really can’t quite make up my mind,” he added, dubiously. 0155 “Let me help you,” said Grace with a gay smile as she extended her hand for the letter. “How?” he asked. “I’ll mail your resignation for you. We shall be riding home by La Siesta postoffice.” “Oh, Grace!” murmured Merle in timid protest. “Think of the responsibility you are taking.” “A woman’s mission in life is to encourage men to do the proper thing,” replied Grace with roguish defiance. “Our friend here is enamored of the West, and the West is the very best place for him. I’ll post your letter, lieutenant.” He placed it between her fingers, doffed his hat, and bowed gallantly. “Be it so. Let the gods—or should I say, a fair goddess?—decide.” “Thanks for the compliment,” cried Grace, with a pretty flush on her face. “Good-bye, then, for the present. Get ready for Sunday’s picnic among the oaks. Come along, Merle, my dear.” And with a touch of the quirt she started her pony into a canter. “Great guns, but she’s worth while,” exclaimed Munson as he gazed after the retreating figures. CHAPTER VII—Old Bandit Days