arrival on the ranch which she had been forced to take over.

At once he had become

an admirer. This devotion had endured and strengthened with the years, so that,
although she often laughed at it, she had grown to rely upon it as well as to feel
flattered about it.

A man of Fitzrapp's education and experience was rare in her social life. His easy
manner gave him an appeal that other men of her somewhat limited acquaintance
lacked. Although not positively handsome, as was her uncle, considering his age,
Thomas Fitzrapp had a commanding presence, and expressive, deep-set brown eyes.
Growing into womanhood, she had become more certain of her admirer's personal
value, and, by comparison with other men, found in him graces that compelled her
appreciative consideration.

Under the circumstances Blackandwhite, the cayuse, was left largely to his own
devices, which, in this instance, considered only setting his own pace and "boxing"
his own compass. The widow, concerned with her mental inquest on the suitor who had
disappointed about the raid, continued that investigation of herself and of him.

Certainly Tom Fitzrapp always had been most kind to her; tolerant of her whims,
which she knew had been many; considerate of her feelings, which were not near the
surface, and respectful toward her opinions, which were decided.

The pronounced fault of jealousy which Fitzrapp lately had developed pleased more
than it annoyed her. When brought to task for this, he always assured her that it
would disappear once she had given him an affirmative answer to his persisting
question. But this answer she postponed, keeping him in the equivocal position of
being neither refused nor accepted. Most men would have considered this treatment
unfair. Under the circumstances, she was impressed by his personal optimism.

On various counts in the past she had been impatient with Tom Fitzrapp, but these
had been trivial. This afternoon she could not be cheerful, feeling a real
disappointment—the disappointment that had forced her drastic action of "either go
to your horse race in Strathconna and don't come back, or stay here and help
capture these pesky bandits."

Still rankled in her mind the ranch manager's lack of courage in this latest brush
with the rustlers. It would have required more than a bullet hole in her hat to
stop the widow, had she found herself within gun range of the thieves. Had Tom come
home with a broken shoulder, or even a clipped ear, her temper would have been more
tolerant. As it was he was nearly out of the ranch romance, so far as she was
concerned.

Just then the piebald took a hand—just as she was about to tell all the Fire Weed
world what she thought of Mr. Thomas Fitzrapp. The horse stopped and pawed the
ground with his right forefoot, as if the shoe hurt him, then turned around in
inquiry.

"My goodness, hawse, I believe you've an inkling what I've been thinking about all
this ride. What's the answer?"

Ethel Andress looked into the horse's eyes, but saw that they held no fear,
although she knew that the eyes of a horse reflect more of alarm than do those of a
dog when alarm there is. "What do you want me to look at?" she asked the beast
companionably.

The answer was down in the cup of the hills—that most beautiful stallion she ever
had seen. Her filly had told her something and something she was not ready to meet.
But the decision was taken out of her hands. The silver beast had issued his call
and there was no human woman powerful enough to keep the equine twain apart. Ethel
knew when she had lost control of her mount and this time she had. Eventually the
piebald would descend into the cup, carrying her to a second meeting with the
mysterious man from the States, that is unless he had sold the pride and joy of his
heart.

But for the moment she was able to postpone the descent. She realized that she had
ridden across the range and to the edge of the low bluff upon which the railroad
surveyors had put their brand and where any time now the wire fences of settlers
might be found. Anything but a happy thought—settlers and wire fences—to a stock
woman!

Looking down at the foot of the bluff, she made a startling discovery. Settlers
must have come already! Else what was the meaning of that rough log shelter that
was rising just below her stand on the bank of a small creek; of the canvas corral
and the presence of a small band of horses grazing as peacefully as though they
were at home there? Nothing of the sort had she noticed on her previous rides that
Spring about the edge of the cup.

"Looks like the end of the range," she predicted dismally. And to think that the
rescuer who had intrigued her, the handsome and strangely reserved American should
lead the invasion so long predicted by her own uncle and echoed by the gentleman
who had been her husband!

She looked again at the animal picketed near the half-complete cabin. Undoubtedly
it was the silver stallion she had ridden in her final spurt to be first at the
death of the coyote hunt. There was no mistaking the neck arching gracefully from
oblique shoulders, the superb carriage of the head without breaking the line of
curvature from withers to foretop; the round barrel that carried full back to the
hips, and the full sweep of the high-carried tail. She looked with eyes trained to
equine appraisal, and had not the slightest doubt of her recognition.

Two men left the unroofed cabin as she watched, and walked toward the corral, the
smaller carrying a saddle and bridle. The taller one, who walked with a long stride
and played with the loop of his rope she saw at a glance was Childress who should
have been anywhere else but there on the border range, unless——

Remembrance gripped her. Fitzrapp had seen him in Strathconna with Flame Gallegher.
This cup which he seemed to have occupied, was a buffer between the Rafter A and
the Gallegher ranch. What was the connection? Tom suspected the owner of the silver
horse to be leader of the rustlers; could it be possible that the Galleghers were
concerned in the stealing and that the man who called himself Childress was there
at Gallegher instigation? Until that moment she had held Fitzrapp's reiterated
suspicions as groundless and merely an outgrowth of his own jealousy. Was it
possible that Tom was right and that this upstanding young American who said he had
come from Montana really was the head of the rustling band? If so, he could
scarcely have found a likelier place as a base of operations.

Claim to a ranchhold there would be a reasonable excuse for his presence on the
range; the location offered every opportunity for spying on the Rafter horse bands
and a ready refuge in case raiding plans miscarried. What a discovery she had
stumbled upon! And what fools they had been, they of the Rafter outfit, not to have
learned that this particular section was open to purchase from the railroad people!

Ethel watched the men as they crossed to the corral, her mind still busy with this
new problem. She knew that a canvas corral was impenetrable to the most obstinate
outlaw, and was the best fence for breaking purposes. Even before the pair entered
the enclosure, she suspected what was on hand—that the roan beast, moving so
restlessly inside, was going to feel saddle girths, possibly for the first time.
Mrs. Andress was in doubt as to her immediate course. Had she been convinced that
Childress was the rustler Fitzrapp believed him to be, she would have hurried away
to round up her outfit and give the battle in which she longed to be a participant.
But she had no proof of his guilt, and could take no definite action on mere
suspicion.

Then she remembered Childress's frank-looking eyes and his resourcefulness when he
thought her in danger that morning on the Indian reservation, and she knew that she
was far from convinced. Horse-thieves might not look the part, as the men of Rafter
A agreed, but she felt that Childress could not act such a rôle. A desire to see
him and talk to him grew upon her, and finally won her decision. She'd yield to the
filly, which probably would have thrown her and gone for a visit to the silver
beast whether or no.

She would ride down to the canvas corral, and if the stranger confirmed her first
impression, she would warn him of the danger that hung over anyone under suspicion
in the vicinity of the Fire Weed range. Indeed, she was not certain but that she
would warn him of peril in any event. If he was a rustler, and she succeeded in
frightening him away, the result would be the same as though she and her outfit
fought him off. Danger would be spared them both, and she felt that she owed him
something for his intentions up at Whitefoot.

For just a moment she wavered, remembering what Fitzrapp had reported seeing at the
Chateau Royal. She had no love to lose for the Gallegher girl. But she banished the
thought as utterly outside the question, so far as she was concerned. She would
warn him; but first, from this reserved seat on the bald bluff, after restraining
her mount, she would see how he handled a recalcitrant horse.

CHAPTER IX.

BUST 'EM, BRONCO.

Both Childress and the man with him entered the corral, crawling under the canvas
without regard for dignity. The rope fell true at first cast, and the roan was soon
in hand and blindfolded for the saddling, which was accomplished without throwing,
despite vigorous protests from the animal.

The widow could see that the hors