“When you have discovered that you might learn to love me you will have time for other things,” he reminded her. “Time to improve myself?” she teased. “Nothing could improve you in my eyes, Chita,” he said, honestly. “To me you are perfect.” “If Margaret Cullis hadn’t taught me that it was vulgar I should say ‘Rats’ to that.” “Please don’t.” “I won’t,” she promised. “And now you must run along. You know your orders never said anything about spending two hours at the Billings ranch this afternoon. What will your detachment think?” “They’ll think I’m a fool if I don’t stay all afternoon and ride back to the post in the cool of the night.” “And get court martialed when you get there. Boots and saddles for you, Lieutenant Samuel Adams King!” “Yes, sir!” he cried, clicking his heels together and saluting. Then he seized her hand and kissed it. “Don’t!” she whispered, snatching it away. “Here comes Luke.” “I don’t care if the World’s coming.” “That’s because you don’t know what it is to be joshed by a bunch of cow-punchers,” she told him. “Say, why when it comes to torture, Victorio and Geronimo and old Whoa could have gone to school to some of these red necks from the Pan Handle.” “All right, I won’t embarrass you. Good-bye and good luck, and don’t forget the message I brought from Mrs. Cullis. She wants you to come and spend a week or so with her.” “Tell her I thank her heaps and that I’ll come the first chance I get. Good-bye!” She watched him walk away, tall, erect, soldierly; trim in his blue blouse, his yellow striped breeches, his cavalry boots, and campaign hat—a soldier, every inch of him and, though still a boy, a veteran already. And she sighed—sighed because she did not love him, sighed because she was afraid that she would never love him. Lines of bitterness touched the corners of her mouth and her eyes as she thought of the beautiful and priceless thing that she had thrown away—wasted upon a murdering savage—and a flush of shame tinged her cheeks. Her painful reveries were interrupted by the voice of Luke Jensen. “I jest been ridin’ the east range, Miss,” he said. “Yes? Everything all right?” “I wouldn’t say thet it was an’ I wouldn’t say thet it wasn’t,” he replied. “What’s wrong?” “You recollect thet bunch thet always hung out near the head o’ the coulee where them cedars grows out o’ the rocks?” “Yes, what about them?” “They’s about half of ’em gone. If they was all gone I’d think they might have drifted to some other part o’ the range; but they was calves, yearlin’s, and some two an’ three year olds still follerin’ their mothers in thet bunch; an’ a bunch like thet don’t scatter fer no good reason.” “No. What do you make of it, Luke?” “If the renegades warnt all c’ralled I’d say Apaches.” “‘Kansas’ reported another bunch broken up that ranges around the Little Mesa,” said Wichita, thoughtfully. “Do you reckon it’s rustlers, Luke?” “I wouldn’t say it was an’ I wouldn’t say it wasn’t.”