Frances secretly determined not to wear jewelry from the treasure chest again. She had never thought before about its causing comment and conjecture in the minds of people who did not know her father as well as she did. Suppose people believed that Captain Dan Rugley had actually stolen those things in some raid into Mexico? Such a thought had never troubled her before. But she could see, now, that strangers might misjudge her father. He talked so recklessly about his old life on the Border that he might easily cause those who did not know him to believe that not alone the contents of that mysterious treasure chest but his other wealth was gained by questionable means. Fortunately, a herd of steers, crossing from one of the extreme southern ranges of the Bar-T to the north where juicier grass grew, attracted the attention of the guest from Amarillo. "Are those all yours, Frances?" he asked, when he saw the mass of dark bodies and tossing horns that appeared through rifts in the dust cloud that accompanies a driven herd even over sod-land. "My father's," she corrected, smiling. "And only a small herd. Not more than two thousand head in that bunch." "I'd call two thousand cows a whole lot," Pratt sighed. "Not for us. Remember, the Bar-T has been in the past one of the great cattle ranches of the West. Daddy is getting old now and cannot attend to so much work." "But you seem to know all about it," said Pratt, with enthusiasm. "Don't you really do all the overseeing for him?" "Oh, no!" laughed Frances. "Not at all. Silent Sam is the ranch manager. I just do what either dad or Sam tell me. I'm just errand girl for the whole ranch." But Pratt knew better than that. He saw now that she was watching the oncoming mass of steers with a frown of annoyance. Something was going wrong and Frances was troubled. "What's the matter?" he asked, curiously. "I thought that was Ratty M'Gill with that bunch," Frances answered, more as though thinking aloud than consciously answering Pratt's question. "The rascal! He'd run all the fat off a bunch of cows between pastures." She pulled Molly around and headed the pinto for the herd. It was not in his way, but Pratt followed her example and rode his grey hard after the cowgirl. Not a herdsman was in sight. The steers were coming on through the dust, sweating and steaming, evidently having been driven very hard since daybreak. Occasionally one bawled an angry protest; but those in front were being forced on by the rear ranks, which in turn were being harassed by the punchers in charge. Suddenly, a bald-faced steer shot out of the ruck of the herd, darting at right angles to the course. For a little way a steer can run as fast as a race-horse. That's why the creatures are so very hard to manage on occasion.