Meeting her level gaze, he flushed crimson with mortification. He stood biting his lip, unable to speak. She went on coldly: "I do not ask you to tell me the cause of your hatred for Mr. Blake. I assume that you are a gentleman and will not destroy my letter. But even if you should do so, it would mean only a short delay. I shall write him again if I receive no reply to this." Ashton's flush deepened. "I did not think you could be so hard. But--I presume I deserved it." "Yes, you did," she agreed, with no lessening of her coldness. "I see you will not accept an apology, Miss Knowles. However, I give you my word that I will deliver your letter to the postmaster at Stockchute." He started out, very stiff and erect. As he passed through the doorway she suddenly relented and called after him: "Good night, Mr. Ashton! Pleasant dreams!" He wheeled and would have stepped back to reply had not Knowles spoken to him from the darkness at the end of the porch: "This way, Ashton. Kid is waiting to show you to the bunkhouse. You'll find a clean bunk and new blankets. I've also issued you corduroy pants and a pair of leather chaps from the commissary. Those city riding togs aren't hardly the thing on the range. There's a spare saddle, if you want to change off from yours." "Thank you for the other things; but I prefer my own saddle," replied Ashton. He now perceived the dim form of Gowan starting off in the starlight, and followed him to the bunkhouse. The other men were already in their beds, fast asleep and half of them snoring. Gowan silently lit a lantern and showed the tenderfoot to an unoccupied bunk in the far corner of the rough but clean building. After a curt request for Ashton to blow out the lantern when through with the light, he withdrew, to tumble into a bunk near the door. Ashton removed twice as many garments as had the puncher, and slipped in between his fresh new blankets, after several minutes spent in finding out how to extinguish the lantern. For some time he lay listening. He had often read of the practical jokes that cowboys are supposed always to play on tenderfeet. But the steady concert of the snoring sleepers was unbroken by any horseplay. Presently he, too, fell asleep. He was wakened by a general stir in the bunkhouse. Day had not yet come, but by the light of a lantern near the door he could see his fellow employes passing out. He dressed as hastily as he could in his gloomy corner, putting on his new trousers and the stiff leather chapareras in place of his breeches and leggings. Gowan came in, glanced at him with a trace of surprise, and went out with the lantern.