Then, unexpectedly, they went down into the alfalfa together amid a shower of apple blossoms. For he, swinging from the branch upon which he sat, had dropped, turned his ankle on an outcropping root, and clutched at her as he fell. The girl merely sat down abruptly, but he plunged cheek first into the soft loam of the plowed orchard. His nose and the side of his face were decorated with débris. Mopping his face with a handkerchief, he succeeded in scattering more widely the soil he had accumulated. She looked at him, gave a little giggle, suppressed it decorously, then went off into a gale of laughter. He joined her mirth. “Not that there’s anything really to laugh at,” he presently assured her with dignity. The young woman made an honest attempt at gravity, but one look at his embellished face set her off again. “We just sat down,” he explained. “Yes. On your bubble of romance. It’s gone—punctured——” “No, no, Miss Lady-in-the-Apple-Blossoms. I’m stickin’ to my story.” “But it won’t stick to you, as for instance the dirt does that you grubbed into.” “Sho!” He mopped his face again. “You know blame’ well we’re gonna be friends. Startin’ from right now.” She started to rise, but he was before her. With both hands he drew her to her feet. She looked at him, warily, with a little alarm, for he had not released her hands. “If you please,” she suggested, a warning in her voice. He laughed, triumphantly, and swiftly drew her to him. His lips brushed her hot cheek before she could push him away. She snatched her hands from him, glared indignantly for an instant at him, then turned on her heel in contemptuous silence. Smilingly he watched her disappear. Slowly, jubilation still dancing in his eyes, he waded through the alfalfa to the fence, crept between two strands, and mounted the patient cow pony. As he rode by the ranch house the girl he had kissed heard an unabashed voice lifted gaily in song. The words drifted to her down the wind. “Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn, Best damned cowboy that ever was born.” It came to her as a boast, almost as a challenge. She recognized the voice, the jaunty impudence of its owner. There was no need to go to the window of her room to make sure of who the singer was. The blood burned in her cheeks. Fire sparked in her eyes. If he ever gave her a chance she would put him in his place, she vowed. CHAPTER II TIM FLANDERS OFFERS INFORMATION AND OPINIONS AFTER dinner at the Elkhorn Lodge Ruth Trovillion left her aunt reading an installment of a magazine serial and drifted across to the large log cabin which was used as a recreation hall by guests of the “dude” ranch. At least she appeared to drift, to hesitate before starting, and after arriving gave an impression of being there tentatively. The thoughts and motives of young women are not always to be read by their manner.