“I like you all the better for your whims,” said Hugh, gallantly, and, as he lifted his hat and turned away, he noticed that the compliment had deepened the color in Marie’s face. As he walked along the street, still thinking of his conversation with Marie, he met Bill Kinne-man, riding a bronco. Kinneman called out to him, “Look ‘e ‘ere, pardner, I thought you agreed not to browse on my range.” “What’s the matter with you, Kinneman, anyway?” asked Hugh, angrily. “Waal, I’ll jist tell you what’s a-chafin’ me, an’ makin’ me feel a heap careless,” replied the cowboy. “You want to keep away from Major Hampton’s an’ quit foolin’ ‘round Miss Marie, my wayfarin’ friend, or you’ll git into a whole lot o’ trouble that’ll result in yer nach’ally git-tin’ uncorked and spilled.” “Oh, is that so?” replied Hugh, contemptuously. “You bet yer life, it’s so,” replied Kinneman, “an’ speakin’ sort o’ quick and hostile-like, you’ve bin stealin’ my thunder, an’ now you may nach’ally expect to git a dose o’ my forked-tongued lightnin’.” “You may do your worst,” said Hugh, angrily. “I shall call on Major Hampton and his daughter as often as I like, as long as it is agreeable to them. You are a contemptible whelp at best, and as far beneath Miss Hampton as hades is below heaven, and if she had the faintest suspicion that you aspired to her hand, she would be so incensed at your presumption that she would never speak to you again. Now go on about your business, if you have any, and never again dare speak to me.” Hugh turned on his heel and walked briskly away toward the bank, while Bill Kinneman rode his pony into a side street, muttering dire vengeance. As Hugh neared the bank he saw John B. Horton riding madly down the street. His fiery bronco seemed to have gotten beyond his control. It reared, pitched, plunged forward, kicked viciously, and pawed the earth. The cattle king sat in his saddle like a born equestrian, but it was evident that he was pretty well exhausted. Presently the pony started swiftly forward into a mad, breakneck run. When directly in front of Captain Osborn’s bank, the mustang suddenly shied, reared into almost an upright position, and then, as its fore feet came down, it “bucked,” made a wicked plunge, and kicked high in the air. The onlookers, though accustomed to bucking broncos, were beginning to be alarmed. Another mad plunge, and still another. Suddenly the saddle-girth broke, and Mr. Horton was thrown violently from the pony, his head striking against the curb of the sidewalk. By a strange coincidence, the ugly red scar that Hugh had noticed at their first meeting was cut open by the fall. Captain Osborn rushed from the bank, and, with the assistance of Hugh and others, the bleeding man was carried into the captain’s private room and a physician hastily summoned. Before the physician could arrive, a report was circulating on the streets of Meade that John B. Horton, the cattle king, had been thrown from a bronco and killed.