"There's ways of showin' gladness," contended Uncle Jepson. "I cal'late if I wanted to compliment a girl, I wouldn't look at her like I wanted to carry her off to the mountains." "Jep, they're only cowboys--they don't know any different," remonstrated Aunt Martha. "They don't, eh?" sniffed Uncle Jepson. "I cal'late that feller, Rex Randerson, is some different, ain't he? There's a gentleman, Ruth. You didn't see him makin' no ox-eyes. An' I'll bet you wouldn't ketch him gettin' thick with them two plug-uglies out there!" Ruth turned away, smiling tolerantly, after having caught a glimpse of Aunt Martha's brows, uplifted in resignation. She was as fully aware of Uncle Jepson's dislike of Willard Masten as she was of Uncle Jepson's testiness and of his habit of speaking his thoughts without reservation. Also, she had always avoided opposing him. It did not seem to be worth while. He had been left destitute, except for the little farm back near Poughkeepsie which he had sold at her request to accompany her here, and she felt that habits of thought and speech are firmly fixed at sixty-nine, and argument cannot shake them. That first day at the ranchhouse was the beginning of a new existence for Ruth. Bound for years by the narrow restrictions and conventionality of the Poughkeepsie countryside, she found the spaciousness and newness of this life inviting and satisfying. Here there seemed to be no limit, either to the space or to the flights that one's soul might take, and in the solemn grandeur of the open she felt the omnipotence of God and the spell of nature. She had plenty of time after the first day to hold communion with the Creator. Masten was rarely near her. His acquaintance with Pickett and Chavis seemed destined to develop into friendship. He rode much with them--"looking over the range," he told her--and only in the evening did he find time to devote to her. Wes Vickers returned from Red Rock on the morning following Ruth's arrival. Apparently, in spite of Randerson's prediction, Vickers did not get drunk in town. Through him Ruth learned much about the Flying W. He gave her the fruit of his experience, and he had been with the Flying W as range boss for nearly five years. Vickers was forty. His hair was gray at the temples; he was slightly stoop-shouldered from years in the saddle, and his legs were bowed from the same cause. He was the driving force of the Flying W. Ruth's uncle had written her to that effect the year before during his illness, stating that without Vickers' help he would be compelled to sell the ranch. The truth of this statement dawned upon Ruth very soon after her acquaintance with Vickers. He was argus-eyed, omnipresent. It seemed that he never slept. Mornings when she would arise with the dawn she would find Vickers gone to visit some distant part of the range. She was seldom awake at night when he returned.