With apparent unconcern Harlan rode toward her. The big black horse did not change his pace, nor did Harlan change expression. It seemed to the girl that in both horse and rider were a steadfastness of purpose that nothing could change. And despite her indignation, she felt a thrill of admiration for both man and horse. Yet her eyes were still flashing ominously when Harlan rode to within a dozen paces of her and brought the big black to a halt. There was an expression of grave respect on Harlan's face; but she saw a lurking devil in his eyes--a gleam of steady, quizzical humor--that made her yearn to use her quirt on him. For by that gleam she knew he had purposely followed her; that he expected her to be angry with him for doing so. And the gleam also told her that he had determined to bear with her anger. "Well?" she inquired, icily. "Good mornin', ma'am." He bowed to her, sweeping his broad-brimmed hat from his head with, it seemed to her, an ironical flourish. "Is there something you want to speak to me about?" she asked, her chin elevated, disdain in her eyes. She assured herself that when he glanced at her as he was doing at this instant, she positively hated him. She wondered why she had tolerated his presence. "I wasn't havin' any thoughts about speakin' to you, ma'am. Kind of a nice mornin' for a ride, ain't it?" "If one rides alone," she returned, significantly. "I enjoy ridin' a whole lot better when I've got company," he stated, gravely, with equal significance. "Meaning that you have made up your mind to ride with me, I suppose?" she said coldly. "You've hit it, ma'am." "Well," she declared, her voice quivering with passion; "I don't want you to ride with me. You came here and usurped whatever power and authority there is; and you are running the Rancho Seco as though it belongs to you. But you shan't ride with me--I don't want you to!" Had she been standing she must have stamped one foot on the ground, so vehement was her manner. And the flashing scorn of her eyes should have been enough to discourage most men. But not Harlan. His eyelids flickered with some emotion; and his eyes--she noted now, even though she could have killed him for his maddening insistence--were blue, and rimmed by heavy lashes that sun and sand had bleached until the natural brown of them threatened to become a light tan. She studied him, even while hating him for she saw the force of him--felt it. And though she was thinking spiteful things of him, she found that she was forming a new impression of him--of his character, his appearance, and of the motives that controlled him.