"My father crossed it among the first white men from the Eastern States. He came back here to settle--long before I was born, of course--when a plow had never been sunk in these range lands. He belongs to the old cattle régime. He wouldn't hear until lately of putting wheat into any of the Bar-T acres." "Ah, well, by all accounts he is one of the few men who still know how to make money out of cows," laughed Pratt Sanderson. "Thank you, Miss Rugley. I can't let you do anything more for me----" "You are a long way from the Edwards' place," she said. "You'd better ride to the Bar-T for the night. We will send a boy over there with a message, if you think Mrs. Edwards will be worried." "I suppose I'd better do as you say," he said, rather ruefully. "Mrs. Edwards _will_ be worried about my absence over supper time. She says I'm such a tenderfoot." For a moment a twinkle came into the veiled grey eyes; the new expression illumined the girl's face like a flash of sunlight across the shadowed field. "You rather back up her opinion when you tackle a lion with nothing but birdshot--and one barrel of your gun fouled in the bargain," she said. "Don't you think so?" "But I killed it with a revolver!" exclaimed the young fellow, struggling to his feet again. "That pistol throws a good-sized bullet," said the ranchman's daughter, smiling. "But I'd never think of picking a quarrel with a lion unless I had a good rope, or something that threw heavier lead than birdshot." He looked at her, standing there in the after-glow of the sunset, with honest admiration in his eyes. "I _am_ a tenderfoot, I guess," he admitted. "And you were not scared for a single moment!" "Oh, yes, I was," and Frances Rugley's laugh was low and musical. "But it was all over so quickly that the scare didn't have a chance to show. Come on! I'll catch your pony, and we'll make the Bar-T before supper time." CHAPTER II "FRANCES OF THE RANGES" The grey was a well-trained cow-pony, for the Edwards' ranch was one of the latest in that section of the Panhandle to change from cattle to wheat raising. A part of its range had not as yet been plowed, and Bill Edwards still had a corral full of good riding stock. Pratt Sanderson got into his saddle without much trouble and the girl whistled for Molly. "I'll throw that lion over my saddle," she said. "Molly won't mind it much--especially if you hold her bridle with her head up-wind." "All right, Miss Rugley," the young man returned. "My name is Pratt Sanderson--I don't know that you know it." "Very well, Mr. Sanderson," she repeated. "They don't call me _that_ much," the young fellow blurted out. "I answer easier to my first name, you know--Pratt." "Very well, Pratt," said the girl, frankly. "I am Frances Rugley--Frances Durham Rugley."