A girl sat on a chestnut horse within thirty feet of him, drawn up against the aspens. She was bareheaded. Her hair was yellow, like ripe corn, very short, almost as short as Robin’s. It curled all over her head in little spirals. She had on a white blouse, a flaming orange scarf encircled her white throat, her skirt was divided and of gray corduroy. Her tan riding-boots were armed with a pair of silver spurs that flashed in the sun and reminded Robin disagreeably of Mark Steele. She had big, clear, very dark blue eyes that rested on Robin with a friendly light in them. All these details Robin noted in a breath. His hat was still in his hand. He sat erect in his saddle, staring in sheer astonishment. He wasn’t used to apparitions like that. They were rare indeed on the range. He felt thankful that the whimsicalities he had shouted at Stormy, the gray horse, in that wild progress across the flat had not been expressed in the ribald idioms of the cow camps. “Howdy,” he said politely. The girl smiled and stepped her horse forward. “Are you practicing to join Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show?” she asked. Robin grinned. “Not that you could notice,” said he, cheerfully. “Just ridin’, that’s all.” “You seem to enjoy it,” she observed. “Well, if a cow horse tries to throw me and can’t do it, it don’t make me sad,” Robin admitted. The gray woke up. He plunged twice, swapped ends once in the air, stopped as unexpectedly as he began, and stood fretfully shaking his head. Robin laughed. No horse ever caught him off guard. The gray sidestepped, turned so that he exposed the brand on his shoulder. “Oh. You ride for Dan Mayne, do you?” the girl said. “I’m May Sutherland.” “Robin Tyler’s my name,” he exchanged the courtesy. He was not surprised. He had surmised at first glance that this was Adam Sutherland’s daughter. “So you’re just riding,” she continued in a friendly tone. “I do that myself sometimes--just ride. I thought cow-punchers always rode for a purpose, not just for fun. You certainly _can_ ride.” May Sutherland’s voice was a rather wonderful thing, it suddenly dawned upon Robin--and not because she praised his horsemanship. From that slender figure, pliant as a willow, a man somehow expected to hear a sweet, shrill tone, like a canary twittering. May’s voice was not so much deep, as throaty, liquid. It was like a caress. It stirred Robin curiously. There rose beside this very fair, frank-speaking daughter of a cattle king the image of Ivy Mayne. They were a direct contrast, in looks, manner, speech, in everything--and both alluring. If a man had to choose between them? That vagrant thought startled Robin. Indeed impressions flashed through his mind with such speed that those queer speculations were come and gone without his losing the point of her words or hesitating for an answer. He was reminded by her words that he had a very definite purpose in riding that evening.