A din of falling pots and pans issued from the cook-house, mingled with shrill cries and soft Spanish imprecations; then, with one long-drawn wail, the pandemonium ceased as suddenly as it had commenced, and Carara issued forth, black with anger. "Ha!" said he, scowling at Mariedetta, who had retreated, her hand upon her bosom. He exhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke through his nostrils fiercely. "You play wit' me, eh?" "No! no!" Mariedetta ran to him, and, seizing his arm, cooed amorously in Spanish. "Bah! _Vamos!"_ Carara flung her from him, and stalked away. "Well, of all the outrageous things!" said Miss Blake. "Why, she was actually flirting with that Chinaman." "Mariedetta flirts with every man she can find," said Jean, calmly, "but she doesn't mean any harm. She'll marry Carara some time--if he doesn't kill her." "Kill her!" Miss Blake's eyes were round. "He wouldn't do _that!"_ "Indeed, yes. He is a Mexican, and he has a terrible temper." Miss Blake sank back into the hammock. "How perfectly dreadful! And yet--it must be heavenly to love a man who would kill you." Miss Chapin lost herself in meditation for an instant. "Culver is almost like that when he is angry. Hello, here comes our foreman!" Stover, a tall, gangling cattle-man with drooping grizzled mustache, came shambling up to the steps. His weather-beaten chaps were much too short for his lengthy limbs, the collar of his faded flannel shirt lacked an inch of meeting at the throat, its sleeves were shrunken until his hairy hands hung down like tassels. He was loose and spineless, his movements tempered with the slothfulness of the far Southwest. His appearance gave one the impression that ready-made garments are never long enough. He dusted his boots with his sombrero and cleared his throat. "'Evening, Miss Jean. Is Mr. Chapin around?" "I think you'll find him down by the spring-house. Can I do anything for you?" "Nope!" Stover sighed heavily, and got his frame gradually into motion again. "You're not looking well, Stover. Are you ill?" inquired Miss Chapin. "Not physical," said the foreman, checking the movement which had not yet communicated itself the entire length of his frame. "I reckon my sperret's broke, that's all." "Haven't you recovered from that foot-race?" "I have not, and I never will, so long as that ornery Centipede outfit has got it on us." "Nonsense, Stover!" "What have they done?" inquired Miss Blake, curiously. "I haven't heard about any foot-race." "You tell her," said the man, with another sigh, and a hopeless gesture that told the depth of his feelings. "Why, Stover hired a fellow a couple of months ago as a horse-wrangler. The man said he was hungry, and made a good impression, so we put him on." Here Stover slowly raised one booted foot and kicked his other calf. "The boys nicknamed him Humpy Joe--" "Why, poor thing! Was he humpbacked?" inquired Helen.