"Whose horse he is, don't make any difference. An' if I ain't got the right to tell you not to ride him, I'll take the right." "Well, of all the nerve! Anybody would think you owned the earth!" The Texan regarded her gravely: "Not much of it, I don't. But, I'm goin' to own more----" "More than the earth!" she mocked. "Yes--a whole heap more than the earth," he answered, as his steady grey eyes stared straight into her own stormy, blue-black ones. Then, without a word, he extended the reins of the mare, and without a word, the girl took them and mounted. As the cowboy swung into the saddle, the blue roan tried to sink his head, but the man held him up short, and after two or three half-hearted jumps the animal contented himself with sidling restlessly, and tonguing the bit until white, lathery foam dripped from his lips. As the girl watched the animal the resentment died from her eyes: "That's the littlest fuss I ever saw Blue kick up," she announced. The Texan smiled: "He's on his good behaviour this mornin'." "He saw it was no use," she replied, quickly. "Horses have got lots of common sense." The two headed up the little used trail that led upward to the bench by way of a shallow coulee. When they gained the top the man pointed toward the west: "The coulee we're hittin' for is just beyond that little butte that sets out there alone," he explained. "We better circle away from the river a little. The coulees won't be so deep back aways, an' I've got to catch up that cayuse. He hit straight back, an' the way his tracks looked, he sure was foggin' it." They rode side by side at a sharp trot, the Texan now and then casting a glance of approval at the girl who rode on a loose rein "glued to the leather." A wide alkali bed lay before them, and the pace slowed to a walk. "Your partner," began the girl, breaking the silence that had fallen upon them, "maybe he will wake up and start out to find you." The Texan glanced at her sharply: Was it his own imagination, or had the girl laid a significant emphasis upon the "He." Her eyes did not meet his squarely, but seemed focussed upon the edge of the bandage. He shook his head: "I reckon not," he replied shortly. "But, even if he did, we could easily pick up his trail," persisted the girl. "Dead easy." The man was battling with an impulse to tell the girl that his companion upon the river was a woman. The whole thing was so absurdly simple--but was it? Somehow, he could not bring himself to tell this girl--she might not understand--she might think--with an effort he dismissed the matter from his mind. She'll find out soon enough when we get there. He knew without looking at her that the girl's eyes were upon him. "Heavy goin'," he observed, abruptly. "Yes." Another long silence, this time broken by the Texan: "I don't get you quite," he said, "you're different from--from most women." "How, different?"