The girl's interest left the pony and centered on its rider. Randerson was running toward the fallen steer, and though Ruth had witnessed this operation a number of times since her coming to the Flying W, she had never watched it with quite the interest with which she watched it now. It was all intensely personal. Randerson had drawn a short piece of rope from a loop on the saddle when he had dismounted. It dangled from his hand as he ran toward the steer. In an instant he was bending over the beast, working at its hoofs, drawing the forehoofs and one hind hoof together, lashing them fast, twining the rope in a curious knot that, the girl knew from experience, would hold indefinitely. Randerson straightened when his work was finished, and looked at Ruth. The girl saw that his face was chalk white. But his voice was sharp, and it rang like the beat of a hammer upon metal: "Get on your horse!" There was no refusing that voice, and Ruth turned and ran toward her pony, with something of the confusion and guilt that overtakes a recreant child scolded by its parent. She was scarcely in the saddle when she turned to watch Randerson. He was pulling the loop from the steer's head. He coiled it, with much deliberation, returned to Patches and hung the rope from its hook. Then he walked slowly back to the steer. The latter had been choked to unconsciousness, but was now reviving. With a quick jerk Randerson removed the rope from its hoofs, retreating to Patches and swinging into the saddle, watching the movements of the steer. The steer had got to its feet and stood with legs braced in sharp outward angles, trembling, its great head rolling from side to side, lowered almost to the dust, snorting breath into its lungs. The girl was fascinated, but she heard Randerson's voice again, flung at her this time: "Get away from here--quick!" She jerked on the reins, and the pony, wise with the wisdom of experience, knowing the danger that portended, bolted quickly, carrying her some distance before she succeeded in halting him. When she turned to look back, there was a dust cloud near the spot where the steer had lain. In the cloud she saw the steer, Patches, and Randerson. Patches and the steer were running--Patches slightly in advance. The pony was racing, dodging to the right and left, pursuing a zig-zag course that kept the steer bothered. As the girl watched she found a vicious rage stealing over her, directed against the steer. Why didn't Randerson kill the beast, instead of running from it in that fashion? Somehow, she did not like to see Randerson in that role; it was far from heroic--it flavored of panic; it made her think of the panic that had gripped her a few minutes before, when she had retreated from the steer.