It was a noisy, jolly crowd that gathered on this night, cowboys and ranch girls, all ready to swing themselves dizzy, ripe for excitement, whether it came in the form of a frolic or a fight. For, though the program never called for it, a “cowboy scrap” was the one impromptu part always expected, and welcomed by many. A dance, indeed, would have been thought tame without it. There were those who never missed any chance to touch it off, by some tantalizing act which was lighted matches to powder. The doings of the day had helped to put the boys at pistol points. Yet for some reason the under current of ill will was kept down unusually well. It might have been because Colonel Morgan, the soldierly, gray-haired master of the place, who, because of the drinking, rather anticipated trouble, had opened the dance with this cheery warning: “Now, lads and lassies, I asked you here to have a good time; I am going to see that you have it, even if I have to pitch any fool out that does a trick to spoil our fun. Come, Uncle Toby, make the old fiddle do some lively talking.” “All right, Colonel,” called back a roly-poly, baldhead of a man, perched on a high seat in a corner. “Take yer pardners fer a grand waltz.” Then, while the smiling, chatty couples began to file about the room, he scraped on his strings to tune up with a little organ played by a lively-eyed midget of a girl. The music struck up, and the dancers began to swing around, taking their bumps, for the floor was crowded, with jolly good nature. It was a whirl of happy, glowing faces. The dancing, however, was far from rude. Many couples, indeed, glided over the rough floor with an ease that showed them to be no strangers to the art. Alta was especially graceful. She was electric with life, her sweet face lighted by bright eyes and rosy cheeks, her tripping toes keeping step to the music. Her well rounded form was trimly, daintily dressed in white, a rose-colored ribbon at her throat, and a spray of wild flowers airily caught in her hair. She was playful, but her play had in it a touch of pride, and her voice spoke culture. Her costume, too, had a dash of style that was lacking in the dresses of the other girls, who, though comely enough, had so bedecked themselves in showy ribbons and fluffy laces that they looked rather ungraceful. Yet, though superior to them in most respects, Alta, from all outward appearances, was unconscious of it. She was just one with them. Everybody, from the nattiest cowboy to the shaggiest rancher, felt at home in her presence. Even the other girls, though they might have felt a twinge of jealousy at her popularity when they saw the boys, as always, in a cluster about her, had accepted her leadership; for everybody liked Alta Morgan, except Bud Nixon.