Dean Wolcott picked himself up and brushed himself off, resolutely keeping his eyes away from the veranda and Ginger; he felt he could bear all the rest of it if she would only keep away from him. She was there, however, almost as soon as ’Rome was, her face as pale as possible beneath its brown warmth. She wanted breathlessly and with unashamed anguish in her voice to know if he was hurt, but directly she saw--and heard--that he was not, the color rushed hotly back into her cheeks and she turned shortly away on a spurred heel. “A _little_ too much hawse, maybe,” said ’Rome Ojeda, smoothly. “Change with Mr. Wolcott, somebody with a quieter cayuse!” Two or three of the riders promptly dismounted and came forward, but Dean Wolcott shook his head. “Thank you,” he said, stubbornly, “I shall ride this horse or none.” He sounded blatantly dramatic to his own ears. Why hadn’t he laughed it off, made determined comedy of the situation, made them laugh with him, instead of at him? He hated himself for the bombastic attitude he had struck; he hated ’Rome Ojeda and his quivering red roan; he hated his own fatuous folly of weakening the evening before under Ginger’s lips and promising her to make this ghastly fiasco; he was not at all sure that he didn’t hate Ginger. Old Estrada came forward, respectful, helpful. Dean was fitted out with spurs and quirt, the horse was firmly held until the rider was solidly in the saddle, his feet braced, the reins in a tense grip. But now Snort, as if he had had his little joke, conducted himself in what was, for him, a staid and dignified manner; he pranced, he curvetted, he tossed his handsome head, but he made no effort to dislodge his passenger, and Dean, his head aching dully, his aching body intolerably jolted and jarred, followed in the wake of the procession. The old _mayordomo_, riding beside him, explained. They were to drive two hundred and forty steers--two-year-olds that he and his men had been bringing in from the remote pastures--to the shipping point--approximately eighteen miles. On the way back they would collect close to two hundred yearlings and bring them back to the main ranch. It sounded, on the Spaniard’s lips, as simple as hailing a taxicab and driving down Tremont Street. The other riders, Ginger among them, had spurred ahead. Dean could see through the steadily brightening light that the _vaqueros_ were opening the gates of the great corrals, releasing sluggish, slow-moving, brown streams. Estrada said softly in his heavily accented English. “Eef you kip near to me, I weel tell you all, _Señor_.” “Thank you,” said Dean, civilly. “You are very kind.” He was very kind, the black-eyed old _mayordomo_; there was no scorn in his hawklike gaze, nothing but the most respectful desire to be of service. Let others forget that here among them rode--however clumsily--the friend and comrade of his young _señor_, Alejandrino McVeagh; Vincente Estrada would not forget.