Miss Sabina Stone felt the arm of her cow-puncher loosen slightly, and she looked at him. But he was looking at the bishop, no longer gravely but with wide-open eyes, alert. When the narrative reached the elder brother in the field, and how he came to the house and heard sounds of music and dancing, Miss Stone drew away from her companion and let him watch the bishop, since he seemed to prefer that. She took to reading hymns vindictively. The bishop himself noted the sun-browned boy face and the wide-open eyes. He was too far away to see anything but the alert, listening position of the young cow-puncher. He could not discern how that, after he had left the music and dancing and begun to draw morals, attention faded from those eyes that seemed to watch him, and they filled with dreaminess. It was very hot in church. Chief Washakie went to sleep, and so did a corporal; but Lin McLean sat in the same alert position till Miss Stone pulled him and asked if he intended to sit down through the hymn. Then church was out. Officers, Indians, and all the people dispersed through the great sunshine to their dwellings, and the cow-puncher rode beside Sabina in silence. “What are you studying over, Mr. McLean?” inquired the lady, after a hundred yards. “Did you ever taste steamed Duxbury clams?” asked Lin, absently. “No, indeed. What's them?” “Oh, just clams. Yu' have drawn butter, too.” Mr. McLean fell silent again. “I guess I'll be late for settin' the colonel's table. Good-bye,” said Sabina, quickly, and swished her whip across the pony, who scampered away with her along the straight road across the plain to the post. Lin caught up with her at once and made his peace. “Only,” protested Sabina, “I ain't used to gentlemen taking me out and--well, same as if I was a collie-dog. Maybe it's Wind River politeness.” But she went riding with him up Trout Creek in the cool of the afternoon. Out of the Indian tepees, scattered wide among the flat levels of sage-brush, smoke rose thin and gentle, and vanished. They splashed across the many little running channels which lead water through that thirsty soil, and though the range of mountains came no nearer, behind them the post, with its white, flat buildings and green trees, dwindled to a toy village. “My! but it's far to everywheres here,” exclaimed Sabina, “and it's little you're sayin' for yourself to-day, Mr. McLean. I'll have to do the talking. What's that thing now, where the rocks are?” “That's Little Wind River Canyon,” said the young man. “Feel like goin' there, Miss Stone?” “Why, yes. It looks real nice and shady like, don't it? Let's.” So Miss Stone turned her pony in that direction. “When do your folks eat supper?” inquired Lin. “Half-past six. Oh, we've lots of time! Come on.” “How many miles per hour do you figure that cayuse of yourn can travel?” Lin asked. “What are you a-talking about, anyway? You're that strange to-day,” said the lady.