“Can you ride?” Florence was asking. “That’s what a Westerner always asks any one from the East. Can you ride like a man—astride, I mean? Oh, that’s fine. You look strong enough to hold a horse. We have some fine horses out here. I reckon when Al comes we’ll go out to Bill Stillwell’s ranch. We’ll have to go, whether we want to or not, for when Bill learns you are here he’ll just pack us all off. You’ll love old Bill. His ranch is run down, but the range and the rides up in the mountains—they are beautiful. We’ll hunt and climb, and most of all we’ll ride. I love a horse—I love the wind in my face, and a wide stretch with the mountains beckoning. You must have the best horse on the ranges. And that means a scrap between Al and Bill and all the cowboys. We don’t all agree about horses, except in case of Gene Stewart’s iron-gray.” “Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?” asked Madeline. Again she had an inexplicable thrill as she remembered the wild flight of Stewart’s big dark steed and rider. “Yes, and that’s all he does own,” replied Florence. “Gene can’t keep even a quirt. But he sure loves that horse and calls him—” At this juncture a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted the conversation. Florence’s sister went to open it. She returned presently and said: “It’s Gene. He’s been dawdlin’ out there on the front porch, and he knocked to let us know Miss Hammond’s brother is comin’.” Florence hurried into the parlor, followed by Madeline. The door stood open, and disclosed Stewart sitting on the porch steps. From down the road came a clatter of hoofs. Madeline looked out over Florence’s shoulder and saw a cloud of dust approaching, and in it she distinguished outlines of horses and riders. A warmth spread over her, a little tingle of gladness, and the feeling recalled her girlish love for her brother. What would he be like after long years? “Gene, has Jack kept his mouth shut?” queried Florence; and again Madeline was aware of a sharp ring in the girl’s voice. “No,” replied Stewart. “Gene! You won’t let it come to a fight? Al can be managed. But Jack hates you and he’ll have his friends with him.” “There won’t be any fight.” “Use your brains now,” added Florence; and then she turned to push Madeline gently back into the parlor. Madeline’s glow of warmth changed to a blank dismay. Was she to see her brother act with the violence she now associated with cowboys? The clatter of hoofs stopped before the door. Looking out, Madeline saw a bunch of dusty, wiry horses pawing the gravel and tossing lean heads. Her swift glance ran over the lithe horsemen, trying to pick out the one who was her brother. But she could not. Her glance, however, caught the same rough dress and hard aspect that characterized the cowboy Stewart. Then one rider threw his bridle, leaped from the saddle, and came bounding up the porch steps. Florence met him at the door.