The horse merited his criticism. A powerful black, well over fifteen hands, he showed the sloping thigh bones and shoulder of a born galloper, while the deep chest gave promise of long-sustained effort. His rider had pulled up at the general store just beyond the hotel and Ned joining him, Buck expressed his admiration. A moment later he added to it: "By th’ Lord, Ned, that ’s a woman." The rider had dropped from the saddle and paused to wave her hand to Ned before she entered the store. Buck caught the glance from a pair of beautiful dark eyes that rested on him a moment before it fleeted past to his companion. The grave smile was well suited to the wonderfully regular features and when she turned and entered the store it was with the swinging step of perfect movement. Buck faced about with a jerk when he realized that he had actually turned in his saddle to gaze after her. "Best horse in these parts an’ th’ finest woman," agreed Ned, "an’ honest," he added, gruffly. Buck stared at him, surprised. "Why, o’ course! Anybody says different?" He unconsciously stiffened at the thought. "Um—no, not as I knows of. Her daddy ’s a nester; got a quarter-section ’tother side o’ Twin River, off th’ trail a piece. Rosa LaFrance—pretty name, ain’t it? Th’ boys calls her the French Rose." "Yes, ’tis pretty," drawled Buck. "What I’m askin’ about is this recommendation o’ character to me." It was Ned’s turn to feel surprised. He pondered as he looked at Buck. "I reckon I warn’t exactly speakin’ to you, Cheyenne," he explained; "more to myself, like. You see, it’s this way: Dave Owens, he won that horse from McReady of the Cyclone, one night in Wayback. I was n’t there but I hears it’s a regular clean up. McReady was in a streak o’ bad luck and would a’ lost ranch an’ all but his friends hocussed his liquor an’ Mac, he drops out of his chair like somebody hit him with an axe. Next day Rose rides into Twin River on that same horse. John, that’s her daddy, he never bought him; he could n’t. Then how did she come by it? That’s her business, I says. That’s one thing. For another, Dave Owens travels that way considerable, an’ Dave ain’t no company for the French Rose. I ’m too old to interfere or I durn soon would." Buck brooded on this situation for some time and then burst into a laugh. Ned eyed him with stern disapproval. "I was thinkin’ of a cow-punch I know," explained Buck, in apology. "He ’d interfere so quick, there would n’t be time to notify th’ mourners." Ned smiled in sympathy. "That ’d do," he admitted, "but you can’t jump in an’ shoot up a fellow if a girl’s sweet on him, can you? It ’d be just nacheraly foolish." "That ’s so," agreed Buck, "but if the French Rose can look at that son of a thief and like him, then Hopalong Cassidy has no call to be proud o’ _his_self." "Eh?" questioned Ned. "Th’ name slipped out. But now ’s as good a time as any to tell you. Did you ever hear o’ Frenchy McAllister?"