A desire to ride once more in the peaceful sunshine of the land she loved was one of the first indications that Barbara was recovering from the shock occasioned by her father's death. For two or three days she had not stirred from her room, except to go downstairs to cook her meals. She had spent much of her time sitting at a window nursing her sorrow. But on this morning she got out of bed feeling more composed than usual, with several new emotions struggling for the mastery. One of those emotions was that of intolerance. Harlan's assumption of authority enraged her. He had come to the Rancho Seco with no credentials other than his mere word that her father had forced him to promise to "take hold" of "things." And she intended, this very morning, to send Harlan away, and to assume control of the ranch herself. This determination held until after she had breakfasted, and then she stood for a long time in the kitchen door, looking out into the brilliant sunshine, afflicted with a strange indecision. Harlan _had_ helped to fill the void created by her father's death--that was certain. There had been something satisfying in his presence at the ranch; it had seemed to mean an assurance for her safety; she had felt almost as fully protected as when her father had been with her. It angered her to see him moving about the place as though he had a perfect right to be there, but at the same time she felt comfortably certain that as long as he was around no harm could come to her. Her emotions were so contradictory that she could not reach a decision regarding the action she should take and she bit her lips with vexation as she stood in the doorway. Later, her cheeks a little flushed with the realization that she was surrendering to an emotion that she could not understand--but which, she decided guiltily, her face crimson, had its inception in a conviction that she would regret seeing Harlan ride away, to return no more--she went to the corral, roped her pony, threw saddle and bridle on it, mounted the animal, and rode away--westward. She had not traveled more than half a mile when she heard the rapid beating of hoofs behind her. Glancing swiftly backward, she saw Purgatory coming, Harlan in the saddle, smoking a cigarette. Her pulses leaped, unaccountably, and the crimson flush again stained her cheeks; but she sat rigid in the saddle, and looked straight ahead, pretending she had not discovered the presence of horse and rider behind her. She rode another half mile before the flush died out of her cheeks. And then, responding to a swift indignation, she brought Billy to a halt, wheeled him, and sat motionless in the saddle, her face pale, her eyes flashing.