“I had better explain a little,” she said calmly. “As I said, four years ago we came in here with nearly nine thousand cattle and a dozen riders in our outfit. I was eighteen then. I had just finished school. Our first winter here was a bad one--a terrible winter of hard frost and deep snow and storms. In the spring a round-up out two months gathered less than five hundred cattle in our brand. Betty was born that winter, and mamma died. The next summer a horse fell on my father, injured his back, so that he was a helpless cripple for nearly a year. Then he died. He left all there was to me and Betty. I have full control of everything until she comes of age. So I have managed here ever since. Mostly with one man, sometimes with two.” * * * * * So that was that. The dead man was a range rider, not a husband, and the baby was a sister. She was a level-headed, plucky girl to run a shoe-string outfit by herself. Yet he suspected that in this man’s country, men would make it easy for this capable and determined young person. Rock’s interest quickened. “Wonder you didn’t sell out and go back to your folk,” he suggested. “I have none--at least none that I care much about,” she replied. “And how much would I get for five or six hundred cattle? A few thousand dollars. The ranch isn’t salable. Who would pay money for a ranch, when land and water can be had anywhere for taking? Why should I sell out? I know cattle. This is a new country, a good range. We may not have another hard winter in a lifetime. It just happened. The old trappers and the Indians never saw a winter like that. Every four years my cattle will double. After a while it will make Betty and me independent. Why should I sell out? What would I do? Go to some town and be a clerk in a store?” The vehemence in her voice made Rock smile. “Oh, you got the right idea,” he admitted. “You’re working on the same principle that has built up every big outfit in the country. Only, it’s sort of unexpected in a woman no bigger than a minute.” “Please understand me clearly,” she said, with a peremptory note in her curiously musical voice. “I don’t need any sympathy from anybody. I know what I’m doing, and I’m doing very well here. I want any one who works for me to work on exactly the same basis as he would work for any cow outfit. I don’t want any of this ‘That’s all right, little girl, we’ll see you through,’ business. That’s mostly what got Doc Martin killed, I suspect. Every man who works for me gets the idea that he’s in love with me.” “Why blame ’em for that?” Rock interrupted. “It embarrasses me. I’ve fired two or three for getting mushy. I don’t want that sort of thing. Do you think you can ride for me without getting sentimental--without presently getting the attitude that it’s your duty and privilege to protect me from every man in the country except yourself?” Rock’s amused smile faded. “Miss---- I don’t think I got your name.” He stopped.