“_La Raquelita_ is not through yet. The _ganado_ are not _shipped_,” said a swarthy sheepherder drinking there. “Many things happen on the road.” There was a sneering smile on his face. “What the ----, you yellow-livered woman beater, you!” roared Red Dog, and pushed the man out through the door before he thought to ask him what that meant, if anything. And, being quite drunk himself, Red Dog fell asleep with his head on the table, instead of riding after the dust of the Daniels girl’s outfit. Camp was made three miles out of La Cruz, and never before had a shipment of cattle seemed so momentous to Raquel. “This is the most important shippin’ Los Ranchos ever did,” she grinned at Russell over the soapweed fire. “Well, the worst is over now,” he assured her. “Why don’t you go on in to town in the car and get a good night’s sleep? Nothin’ will happen and we’ll be right there in the mornin’, ready to start shippin’ at six.” A cold, biting rain had been falling off and on ever since they had left Red Dog--one of those miserable March visitations which even the land of sunshine must endure if there is to be grass on the range. Raquel was drenched from her waist down. Her boots had not been off for three days. And now she was drying them on her feet before the fire so that she would be able to get them on again after she did take them off. She hated to leave her outfit now, but she was dead for sleep; and besides, there were things for her to attend to in town. “All right, boys, I will. Tomorrow’s Tuesday. We ship our cattle. They arrive Thursday. And Friday morning, April first--and incidentally my birthday, boys”--as if they didn’t know it--“I step into the First National Bank for a few moments, and when I come out you can celebrate.” They smiled gallantly, and Russ looked enormously relieved. No one knew what the faithful cowboy had suffered during all these negotiations about cars. Raquel’s apparent confidence had preserved the morale of the whole outfit, although they knew nothing of the financial drama that was being played. So “_La Raquelita_” drove off through the misting rain. Her feverish eyes concentrated on the washouts in the road ahead, for the ruts were running rivers. She did not see the horse and rider, poncho-covered, cowering behind a mesquite bush not fifteen feet from where she passed. It was the dark sheepherder of Red Dog’s saloon. He rode a horse branded with a large leaning H, that showed up clearly for a moment when the searchlight of Raquel’s car swerved sidewise as the car skidded in the mud. “What was that?” Raquel wondered. But as her eyes were on the road in front of her, so were her thoughts concentrated on what lay ahead, and she lurched on. At length she reached town, and a paved street. How grateful was the hard little bed at El Emporio Magnifico, and the hot little room, bursting with its sheet-iron stove!