“Heavens, Dot, but you’re handsome occasionally!” remarked Helen. “When you get some life in your face and eyes!” Dorothy turned her face away from the others, and perhaps it was only accident that she looked into a mirror hanging on the tent wall. Swiftly she put her hand up to feel a wide red welt on her cheek. Dorothy had been assiduously careful of her soft, white skin, and here was an ugly mark marring its beauty. “Look at that!” she cried, in distress. “My complexion’s ruined!” “How did you get such a splotch?” inquired Helen, going closer. “I’ve been kissed!” exclaimed Dorothy, dramatically. “What?” queried Helen, more curiously, while the others laughed. “I’ve been kissed—hugged and kissed by one of those shameless cowboys! It was so pitch-dark outside I couldn’t see a thing. And so noisy I couldn’t hear. But somebody was trying to help me off my horse. My foot caught in the stirrup, and away I went—right into somebody’s arms. Then he did it, the wretch! He hugged and kissed me in a most awful bearish manner. I couldn’t budge a finger. I’m simply boiling with rage!” When the outburst of mirth subsided Dorothy turned her big, dilated eyes upon Florence. “Do these cowboys really take advantage of a girl when she’s helpless and in the dark?” “Of course they do,” replied Florence, with her frank smile. “Dot, what in the world could you expect?” asked Helen. “Haven’t you been dying to be kissed?” “No.” “Well, you acted like it, then. I never before saw you in a rage over being kissed.” “I—I wouldn’t care so much if the brute hadn’t scoured the skin off my face. He had whiskers as sharp and stiff as sandpaper. And when I jerked away he rubbed my cheek with them.” This revelation as to the cause of her outraged dignity almost prostrated her friends with glee. “Dot, I agree with you; it’s one thing to be kissed, and quite another to have your beauty spoiled,” replied Helen, presently. “Who was this particular savage?” “I don’t know!” burst out Dorothy. “If I did I’d—I’d—” Her eyes expressed the direful punishment she could not speak. “Honestly now, Dot, haven’t you the least idea who did it?” questioned Helen. “I hope—I think it was Stewart,” replied Dorothy. “Ah! Dot, your hope is father to the thought. My dear, I’m sorry to riddle your little romance. Stewart did not—could not have been the offender or hero.” “How do you know he couldn’t?” demanded Dorothy, flushing. “Because he was clean-shaven to-day at noon, before we rode out. I remember perfectly how nice and smooth and brown his face looked.” “Oh, do you? Well, if your memory for faces is so good, maybe you can tell me which one of these cowboys wasn’t clean-shaven.” “Merely a matter of elimination,” replied Helen, merrily. “It was not Nick; it was not Nels; it was not Frankie. There was only one other cowboy with us, and he had a short, stubby growth of black beard, much like that cactus we passed on the trail.”