He possessed himself of her gloved hand and gave her a gentle pull. Jane knew it was gentle because she scarcely felt it. Yet it had irresistible power. She was swayed by that gentle pull. She was slipping sidewise in her saddle. She was sliding into his arms. A little later he smiled up at her and said: “Jane, they call me Bill for short. Same as they call me Boss. But my two front names are Frank Owens.” “Oh!” cried Jane, startled. “Then you—you—” “Yes, I’m the guilty one,” he replied happily. “It happened this way. My bedroom, you know, is next to my office. I often heard the boys poundin’ the typewriter. I had a hunch they were up to some trick. So I spied upon them—heard about Frank Owens an’ the letters to the little schoolmarm. At Beacon I got the postmistress to give me your address. An’ of course I intercepted some of your letters. It sure has turned out great.” “I—I don’t know about you or those terrible cowboys,” replied Jane, dubiously. “How did _they_ happen on the name Frank Owens?” “Sure that’s a stumper. I reckon they put a job up on me.” “Frank—tell me—did _you_ write the—the love letters?” she asked, appealingly. “There were two kinds of letters. That’s what I could never understand.” “Jane, I reckon I did,” he confessed. “Somethin’ about your little notes just won me. Does that make it all right?” “Yes, Frank, I reckon it does,” she returned, leaning down to kiss him. “Let’s ride back home an’ tell the boys,” said Springer, gayly. “The joke’s sure on them. I’ve corralled the little schoolmarm from Missouri.” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 1926 issue of McCalls magazine.]