“Hello, old son!” said Dean Wolcott, cordially. Snort trumpeted and flung up his head at the touch, but the easterner’s voice was smooth. “Steady, boy.... Those fireworks don’t register with me at all, now. I’ve had almost a year of that sort of thing, you see. If you’re feeding your fancy on what you’re going to do to the tenderfoot who rode you that historic day, you’re foiled. You and I will never dazzle the Big Week crowd, but I think you’ll find me remaining in or near the saddle during all our excursions together.” The red roan cocked his sensitive ears and rolled his eyes whitely. Dr. Mayfield nodded approval. “That’s the idea, Dean. No quick movements.... Steady does it, with Snort. You know, I consider that there are very few essentially vicious horses; one now and then, of course, but in the main it’s only terror, terror and suspicion and the vivid memory of abuses.” “Doctor,” the young man wanted to know, “is it too late for a ride?” The doctor’s lips twitched. He liked the impetuous youngness of it ... the lad couldn’t wait to show him, and to show himself.... “No, of course not, Dean! I’ll saddle Ted--” He noted with satisfaction the authority with which Dean Wolcott swung himself into the saddle and set off, ahead of him, up the precipitous Government Trail, and he kept his keen eyes on the slim figure--the easy seat, the vigilant relaxing, the sure coördination of body and brain. Beyond question, he told himself, deeply content, the boy had learned to ride. When they finished the twisting climb and came out on a level shoulder of the mountain he saw Dean Wolcott lean suddenly forward in the saddle, and Snort shot ahead in a plunging lope; horse and rider, a splendid, pulsing unit, flashed over the open space in the warm glow of the sunset, wheeled sharply at the foot of the next rise, and came back, Snort curveting, prancing, flinging up his handsome head, his flanks lathered with excitement rather than heat. “Well?” said the young man, nakedly bidding for praise. “Well, Doctor?” The doctor had not seen the serio-comic exhibition at Dos Pozos but he had had it fully and faithfully described to him, so he was able to balance that day’s performance with this, and he was moved to warm commendation. “Upon my word, Dean, it’s astonishing! In less than a year’s time--and you’ve been physically fit for only a few months-- Well, this has removed my last lingering doubt of your ability to swing the Ranger work. You’ve a good hand, a good seat; authority. I consider you”--he went on, speaking with relish, bestowing his accolade, and the words sounded richer to the young man than the ones which had accompanied the pinning on of his medals--“I consider you a horseman.” Dean Wolcott swung himself smoothly to the ground; there was a silkiness of movement, now, a sure competence about him. “Then”--he colored hotly but his gaze was steady--“then you think I should not cut a ludicrous figure now, before--’Rome Ojeda--Ginger?”