It was always bewildering to Raquel, the recollection of that leave-taking at The Towers. Deep in the old trunk, with Anne sorting her traveling clothes, she rose at a knock to see the whole school, apparently, trying to crowd into her room. Girl after girl, they squeezed in, and then bright little Lillie Matthews was speaking for them. They’d heard she was going. They were all so, so sorry. But wasn’t it splendid? And The Towers was so proud of her; any one who could be really useful. And here was a token of their esteem. And earnest little Lillie, eyes suddenly brimming, planted a kiss on Raquel’s cheek. And then a shower of books, scarves, boxes of candy, girls’ trinkets, came pouring into Raquel’s lap and trunk, and Raquel was standing up before them all. “I’m glad you came. Thank you. And for the presents. I--I don’t deserve any, but I’m sure glad not to quit an outlaw--to part friends.” That same afternoon two west-bound trains sped into the setting sun, bearing two girls--one back to the country she knew and understood; the other away from all the scenes that knew and understood her, into a strange country where life might deal none too gently. CHAPTER II HOME AGAIN Down at the end of the corral in the hot sunshine of midday, Panchito Esquibal was energetically currying his burro. “It is necessary, for the _padroncita_ comes. But thou art going to be most beautiful, my little one; therefore do not budge.” He spoke reassuringly, judging no doubt that the burro had the same objections as he had himself to submitting to such an operation. “Rest tranquil,” advised Pancho the elder, who watched his son from the shadow of the corral sheds, a lazy cigarette drooping from his lips. “He will not run. It would take more than currying.” “Hey, you Pancho Esquibal,” yelled a voice from inside the shed, “I wish I knew what would make you run, or work, once. Not a pinny do you get this month till you get these here saddles every one worked over. “Here. Supple up them cinch straps on Raquel’s saddle. They’ll be here any minute now.” Russell--if he had another name no one knew it--was polishing, as he spoke, the silver fittings on a beautiful saddle of Spanish leather, with an energy that made his red face even more fiery. “Russell certainly ain’t purty,” Mr. Daniels had often said of the gangling cowboy, “but he’s as faithful as that ole houn’ dawg, an’ a durn good hand.” At the bunkhouse an extraordinary activity was going on, currying of heads and grooming of beds. “Chuck them dirty shirts under your bunk, Ang-hel,” shouted Jami Jamison. “D’ye want the boss to see ’m?”