Raquel and Georgie slept beside each other in a tiny room off the kitchen, which was living-room, bedroom, and dining-room. In adjoining rooms were Jami and Angel, who had arrived just in time for supper. The doors were all left open to get the heat from the kitchen and soon a variety of snores could be heard. Raquel giggled and stuffed the cast-iron quilt into her upturned and defenseless ear. She fell asleep to a smothered din of snores from within the house, and the yap-yapping of coyotes and the long howl of a lobo outside on the mesa. The day broke with glorious weather. In a sky of turquoise blue great cumulus clouds piled. A soft wind blew off the rolling prairie, where already tall grasses swayed to the base of tawny foothills. Upon a hummock a scouting party sat motionless in their saddles, looking down towards the northwest. “That’s no horse, Jami. It’s a charred tula, and right next it is a white-faced heifer.” Raquel was positive. “’Scuse me, ma’am, but that’s a dark palmetty and a bunch o’ daisies.” Jami grinned with superior wisdom and handed Raquel his field glass. Even the expert range rider can be deceived at a distance of three miles. Not a sign of wild horses had been seen, and after two days of beautiful, clear weather the horse hunters were none the richer. But luck was coming on the heels of the wind. Across the mesa top came Angel and Georgie at a dead run, and in a few minutes pulled up beside Raquel and Jami. “Sighted,” burst out Georgie. “Foller me.” He wheeled and was off, pursued by racing centaurs. Up they came behind a grassy hill and hardly had their heads topped the summit when a thunder of hoofs arose, a wind as of a cattle stampede, and almost over their toes a bunch of horses went hightailing, burning the wind with their arrogance and joy. The leader was a great roan stallion, the herd mainly young horses, a bunch of mares, and half a dozen two-year-old colts. Beside these there ran free as though riding herd upon its companions a milk and sorrel pinto that flashed before Raquel like a painted tiger-lily. The sight of it left her breathless. Not until the whirlwind had faded away in the distance did they stir or speak. “There’s my horse. Oh, I want _him_.” Raquel scarcely spoke above a whisper. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to slip a rope over his head for you, Raquel,” promised Jami with a fine air of assurance. “I aim to get me that slick brown mustang. I always wanted one, and I might as well take my broncho bustin’ now, ’cause after I hit thirty I’ll be put out o’ the runnin’ anyways.” Raquel turned on the boys earnestly. “Boys, we’ve got two good ropers here, Jami and Angel, and we ought to get us a few new ponies from this bunch. But--I don’t need to tell you--let’s have no hard throwin’, please. Don’t break down any horse. Let’s have ’em sound of wind and limb or not at all.