It was the first time she had ever, alone and unassisted--uninvited-- kissed him upon the mouth. He caught her hard against him with a strength which seemed ready for any feats of prowess. “I’ll ride--anything--anywhere--you ask me,” he said, unsteadily. Ling called him at three o’clock. It was dark and unbelievably cold, and he dressed himself with stiff fingers and went heavy-eyed into the dining room. He felt old and jaded and depressed; unhappily conscious of all the strength which hadn’t yet come back to him. Ginger was there before him, dressed in her oldest riding things, a worn old Stetson on her head, a scarlet bandanna tied, cowboy fashion, about her neck, and she was warm and glowing. She looked as if she had just emerged from the conclusion of their ardent little scene of the night before; Dean felt as if it were something which had happened to him in his youth, and as if his youth had passed a long time ago. He had no appetite, and could barely manage a cup of coffee, and he was almost annoyed with her for eating with excellent relish. They spoke in low tones, remembering Aunt Fan’s earnest pleas that she should not be wakened, but before they left the table there was a pounding of hoofs and a shout from the front of the house. “There’s ’Rome!” said Ginger, jumping up. “Come along!” She ran out onto the veranda and he followed her slowly. ’Rome Ojeda had ridden in from his ranch the night before and stayed with Ginger’s nearest neighbor, and his horses--the one he rode and the one he was leading--were quite fresh. He swung himself to the ground, dropped the reins, pulled off a buckskin gauntlet and strode over to Dean, holding out his hand. “Mighty pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, displaying very briefly his white smile in his brown face. “Here’s your mount, Mr. Wolcott,” he nodded toward the red roan. “Very good of you,” said Dean, stiffly. He felt stiff, body and brain, aching for sleep, cramped and cold. “Oh--the lunches!” cried Ginger. “Almost forgot them!” She bolted into the house. Dean Wolcott looked at his horse and hunted wearily through his mind for something sapient to say about him. The fact was that he had not been astride a horse six times in his twenty-eight years. Others of the Wolcott family rode--several of his friends rode; it had merely happened that he had gone in, instead, in what leisure he had from school and college and later, the office, for tennis and golf and walking trips. He had very nearly made tackle in his junior year; three years on the squad. Now he would have traded all these glad activities for a good working knowledge of horseflesh. One of Ginger’s men brought up her Diablo; there were a dozen riders in the distance, coming nearer at a swinging lope. The _vaquero_ looked at the roan. “I see you got new horse, Meester Ojeda, no?” “Yeh,” Ojeda nodded. “Mr. Wolcott’s ridin’ him to-day.” Then he said, very slowly, “Only been rode a coup’la saddles.”