"Hope Old Man Dale is home," said Racey to himself when he saw ahead of him the grove of cottonwoods marking the location of Moccasin Spring. "But he won't be," he added, lugubriously. "I never did have any luck." He passed the grove of trees and opened up the prospect of house and stable and corral with cottonwood and willow-bordered Soogan Creek in the background. "Changed some since I was here last," he muttered in wonder. For nesters as a rule do not go in for flowers and shrubs. And here, besides a small truck garden, were both--all giving evidence of much care and attention. Racey dismounted at the corral and approached the kitchen door. A fresh young voice in the kitchen was singing a song to the brave accompaniment of a twanging banjo: "_When I was a-goin' down the road With a tired team an' a heavy load, I cracked my whip an' the leader sprung, An' he almost busted the wagon tongue. Turkey in the straw, ha! ha! ha! Turkey in_--" The singing stopped in the middle of a line. The banjo went silent in the middle of a bar. Racey looked in at the kitchen door and saw, sitting on a corner of the kitchen table, a very pretty girl. One knee was crossed over the other, in her lap was the mute banjo, and she was looking straight at him. Racey, heartily and internally cursing himself for having neglected to shave, pulled off his hat and achieved a head-hob. "Good morning," said the pretty girl, putting up a slim tanned hand and tucking in behind a well-set ear a strayed lock of black hair. "Mornin'," said Racey, and decided then and there that he had never before seen eyes of such a deep, dark blue, or a mouth so alluringly red. "What," said the pretty girl, laying the banjo on the table and sliding down till her feet touched the floor, "what can I do for you?" "Nun-nothin'," stuttered the rattled Racey, clasping his hat to his bosom, so that he could button unseen the top button of his shirt, "except cuc-can you find Miss Dale for me. Is she home?" "Mother's out. So's Father, I'm the only one home." "It's yore sister I want, _Miss_ Dale--yore oldest sister." "You must mean Mrs. Morgan. She lives--" "No, I don't mean her. Yore _oldest_ sister, Miss. Her whose hoss was taken by mistake in Farewell yesterday." "That was my horse." "Yores! But they said it was an _old_ lady's hoss! Are you shore it--" "Of course I'm sure. Did you bring him back?... Where?... The corral?" The girl walked swiftly to the window, took one glance at the bay horse tied to the corral gate, and returned to the table. "Certainly that's _my_ horse," she reiterated with the slightest of smiles.