As she stepped out into the street she came face to face with a man who had been standing there looking through the curio window. It was “A. B.” “Howdy, Miss Daniels.” The ranchman’s voice was suavely courteous as he waved his hand towards his hat, bowed deeply, and spat by way of greeting. “Howdy do, Mr. Meyers,” Raquel answered pleasantly as she started up the street. But he blocked the way. “Say, Raquel,” he said without looking at her, shifting his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, “I understand your Dad had an option on that piece of valley range that lies near my northern fences. Don’t suppose you care to hold on to that now. Just thought I’d tell you I was willin’ to take it off your hands.” “Why, no; we want to hold on to that land, thanks. We will take care of it when the time comes.” “Better not be too sure of that, my gal; financial conditions are pretty bad, pretty dangerous, right now.” “Well, I’d have to have my Dad’s instructions before I could sell and he said he wanted to hold on to that land.” Raquel turned to go. “Is that so?” “A. B.” could not control the rage that he felt at being thus dismissed by a mere slip of a girl. “Well, let me tell you,” he called angrily after her, “you’d better keep your Dad’s cattle off my land then. The next animal found on my range I’ll brand.” And with this threat he turned about and strode the other way. It was an unpleasant encounter, and Raquel went into the post office angry and defiant. There was no mail for any of them. Raquel had not known that she would feel so disappointed. Nothing from Jimmy? Had Anne forgotten her so quickly? She had not heard from her since returning to Los Ranchos nearly a month before. There was not even a line from Custer, nor from Pop. Mom did not seem to mind, for letters were an almost unknown quantity in her life. Had it not been for Georgie and Ole Hossfoot it would have been a sorry Christmas Eve. The boys had all gone into town. Mom and Georgie and Raquel sat late before Mom’s fire, and went reluctantly to bed, as if they were waiting for something. At nine o’clock on Christmas morning, as they lingered over a holiday breakfast of pancakes and cane syrup, and fresh pork sausage, a great hallooing was heard outside the gate, then a heavy tread on the veranda. The door burst open, and there was Custer. There was a joyful clamor. Mom, unable to flee the arms of her six-foot son, had taken refuge in his coat front, from which haven she eventually emerged transfigured. “And Raquela, the kid sister, Boss of the Lazy L!” Custer swung her round with one arm while he kept Mom prisoned with the other. “Don’t make ’em any finer!” He kissed her warmly.