“Sure I won’t.”

Briscoe, having finished cinching, swung to his saddle and rode up to say good-by to Arlie.

“Hope you’ll have no trouble with this bunch.  If you push right along you’d ought to get home by night,” he told her.

Arlie agreed carelessly.  “I don’t expect any trouble with them.  So-long, Jed.”

It would not have been her choice to ride home with the lieutenant of rangers, but since her father had made the appointment publicly she did not care to make objection.  Yet she took care to let Fraser see that he was in her black books.  The men rode toward the rear of the herd, one on each side, and Arlie fell in beside her old playmate, Dick.  She laughed and talked with him about a hundred things in which Steve could have had no part, even if he had been close enough to catch more than one word out of twenty.  Not once did she even look his way.  Quite plainly she had taken pains to forget his existence.

“It was Briscoe’s turn the other day,” mused the Texan.  “It’s mine now.  I wonder when it will be Dick’s to get put out in the cold!”

Nevertheless, though he tried to act the philosopher, it cut him that the high-spirited girl had condemned him.  He felt himself in a false position from which he could not easily extricate himself.  The worst of it was that if it came to a showdown he could not expect the simple truth to exonerate him.

From where they rode there drifted to him occasionally the sound of the gay voices of the young people.  It struck him for the first time that he was getting old.  Arlie could not be over eighteen, and Dick perhaps twenty-one.  Maybe young people like that thought a fellow of twenty-seven a Methusaleh.

After a time the thirsty cattle smelt water and hit a bee line so steadily for it that they needed no watching.  Every minute or two one of the leaders stretched out its neck and let out a bellow without slackening its pace.

Steve lazed on his pony, shifting his position to ease his cramped limbs after the manner of the range rider.  In spite of himself, his eyes would drift toward the jaunty little figure on the pinto.  The masculine in him approved mightily her lissom grace and the proud lilt of her dark head, with its sun-kissed face set in profile to him.  He thought her serviceable costume very becoming, from the pinched felt hat pinned to the dark mass of hair, and the red silk kerchief knotted loosely round the pretty throat, to the leggings beneath the corduroy skirt and the flannel waist with sleeves rolled up in summer-girl fashion to leave the tanned arms bare to the dimpled elbows.

The trail, winding through a narrow defile, brought them side by side again.

“Ever notice what a persistent color buckskin is, Steve?” inquired France, by way of bringing him into the conversation.  “It’s strong in every one of these cattle, though the old man has been trying to get rid of it for ten years.”