The young fellow admired the way in which the girl handled her mount. He had seen many half-wild horsemen at the Amarillo street fairs, and the like; since coming to Bill Edwards' place he had occasionally observed a good rider handling a mean cayuse. But this man-handling of a half-wild pony was nothing like the graceful control Frances of the ranges had over Molly. The pinto danced and whirled and snorted, and once almost got her quivering nose down between her knees--the first position of the bucking horse. At every point Frances met her mount with a stern word, or a firm rein, or a touch of the spur or quirt, which quickly took the pinto's mind off her intention of "acting up." "You are wonderful!" exclaimed the youth, excitedly. "I wish I could ride half as good as you do, Miss Frances." Frances smiled. "You did not begin young enough," she said. "My father took me in his arms when I was a week old and rode a half-wild mustang twenty miles across the ranges to exhibit me to the man who was our next-door neighbor in those days. You see, my tuition began early." It was not yet fully dark, although the ranch-house lamps were lit, when they came to the home corral and the big fenced yard in front of the Bar-T. Two boys ran out to take the ponies. One of these Frances instructed to saddle a fresh pony and ride to the Edwards place with word that Pratt Sanderson would remain all night at the Bar-T. The other boy was instructed to give the mountain lion to one of the men, that the pelt might be removed and properly stretched for curing. "Come right in, Pratt," said the girl, with frank cordiality. "You'll have a chance for a wash and a brush before supper. And dad will find you some clean clothes. "There's dad on the porch, though he's forbidden the night air unless he puts a coat on. Oh, he's a very, very bad patient, indeed!" CHAPTER III THE OLD SPANISH CHEST Pratt saw a tall, lean man--a man of massive frame, indeed, with a heavy mustache that had once been yellow but had now turned grey, teetering on the rear legs of a hard-bottomed chair, with his shoulders against the wall of the house. There were plenty of inviting-looking chairs scattered about the veranda. There were rugs, and potted plants, and a lounge-swing, with a big lamp suspended from the ceiling, giving light enough over all. But the master of the Bar-T had selected a straight-backed, hard-bottomed chair, of a kind that he had been used to for half a century and more. He brought the front legs down with a bang as the girl and youth approached. "What's kept you, Frances?" he asked, mellowly. "Evening, sir! I take it your health's well?" He put out a hairy hand into which Pratt confided his own and, the next moment, vowed secretly he would never risk it there again! His left hand tingled badly enough since the attentions of the mountain lion. Now his right felt as though it had been in an ore-crusher.