Florence went into the house, while Madeline tried to discover the object of attention. Presently far up the gray hollow along a foothill she saw dust, and then the dark, moving figure of a horse. She was watching when Florence returned with the glass. Bill took a long look, adjusted the glasses carefully, and tried again. “Wal, I hate to admit my eyes are gettin’ pore. But I guess I’ll hev to. Thet’s Gene Stewart’s hoss, saddled, an’ comin’ at a fast clip without a rider. It’s amazin’ strange, an’ some in keepin’ with other things concernin’ Gene.” “Give me the glass,” said Al. “Yes, I was right. Bill, the horse is not frightened. He’s coming steadily; he’s got something on his mind.” “Thet’s a trained hoss, Al. He has more sense than some men I know. Take a look with the glasses up the hollow. See anybody?” “No.” “Swing up over the foothills—where the trail leads. Higher—along thet ridge where the rocks begin. See anybody?” “By Jove! Bill—two horses! But I can’t make out much for dust. They are climbing fast. One horse gone among the rocks. There—the other’s gone. What do you make of that?” “Wal, I can’t make no more ’n you. But I’ll bet we know somethin’ soon, fer Gene’s hoss is comin’ faster as he nears the ranch.” The wide hollow sloping up into the foothills lay open to unobstructed view, and less than half a mile distant Madeline saw the riderless horse coming along the white trail at a rapid canter. She watched him, recalling the circumstances under which she had first seen him, and then his wild flight through the dimly lighted streets of El Cajon out into the black night. She thrilled again and believed she would never think of that starry night’s adventure without a thrill. She watched the horse and felt more than curiosity. A shrill, piercing whistle pealed in. “Wal, he’s seen us, thet’s sure,” said Bill. The horse neared the corrals, disappeared into a lane, and then, breaking his gait again, thundered into the inclosure and pounded to a halt some twenty yards from where Stillwell waited for him. One look at him at close range in the clear light of day was enough for Madeline to award him a blue ribbon over all horses, even her prize-winner, White Stockings. The cowboy’s great steed was no lithe, slender-bodied mustang. He was a charger, almost tremendous of build, with a black coat faintly mottled in gray, and it shone like polished glass in the sun. Evidently he had been carefully dressed down for this occasion, for there was no dust on him, nor a kink in his beautiful mane, nor a mark on his glossy hide. “Come hyar, you son-of-a-gun,” said Stillwell.