Half way up the rise stood a saloon. As Loring approached it, he heard roars of laughter. In it there was that quality which only liquor can produce. As he drew nearer he could see the reason for the laughter. Before the saloon was a girl on horseback, her pony balking, and flatly refusing to proceed. The doorway was full of half drunken miners, calling out advice of varied import. The saloon keeper, himself a bit flushed, called out: “She’s got Tennessee Bob’s old pony. He never would go by here without taking a drink, and I reckon the horse sort of inherited the habit.” Stephen took in the situation at once. Riding up quickly, he cut the stubborn pony across the flank with his quirt. The animal quivered for a moment, then as another stinging blow fell, galloped on up the trail. “Hell, Loring! what you want to do a thing like that for? Funniest thing I’ve seen in a month,” growled a man in the crowd. Stephen only waved his hand in answer and rode on after the girl, whom he had no difficulty in recognizing. A couple of hundred yards of hard riding brought him up with her. Jean’s cheeks were still crimson, but it was as much from laughter as embarrassment. “Really, Mr. Loring,” she exclaimed, half breathlessly, “you seem to be always in the position of a rescuer.” “Your horses do seem to have a taste for adventure,” he replied. “Perhaps I may be allowed to accompany you on your ride this afternoon,” continued Stephen. “There might, you know, be other saloons which your pony was in the habit of visiting.” “I think it would be safer,” assented Jean. They were nearing the crest of the hill, and the trail broadened so that they could ride abreast. A bevy of quail flushed suddenly up from the ground, strumming the air sharply. A little further on, a jack-rabbit jumped into the center of the trail, looked about, then dove into the underbrush. To a mind in its normal condition, these things were but commonplaces. To Stephen it seemed as if all nature were in an exuberant mood. The very creak of the leather, or ring of steel, as now and then one of the horses’ hoofs struck on stone, fell in with the tenor of his spirits. There are few men who could ride over the Arizona hills with Jean Cameron and doubt the gloriousness of existence.