At the home of the Yavapai Club, on top of the hill, a clock above the plaza, a number of Prescott’s citizens, with their guests, had gathered to watch the beginning of the automobile race.  The course, from the corner in front of the St. Michael hotel, followed the street along one side of the plaza, climbed straight up the hill, passed the clubhouse, and so away into the open country.  From the clubhouse veranda, from the lawn and walks in front, or from their seats in convenient automobiles standing near, the company enjoyed, thus, an unobstructed view of the starting point of the race, and could look down as well upon the crowds that pressed against the ropes which were stretched along either side of the street.  Prom a friendly automobile, Helen Manning, with her husband’s field glasses, was an eager and excited observer of the interesting scene, while Stanford near by was busy greeting old friends, presenting them to his wife and receiving their congratulations.  And often, he turned with a fond look and a merry word to the young woman, as though reassuring himself that she was really there.  There was no doubt about it, Stamford Manning, strong and steady and forceful, was very much in love with this girl who looked down into his face with such an air of sweet confidence and companionship.  And Helen, as she turned from the scene that so interested her, to greet her husband’s friends, to ask him some question, or to answer some laughing remark, could not hide the love light in her soft brown eyes.  One could not fail to see that her woman heart was glad—­glad and proud that this stalwart, broad-shouldered leader of men had chosen her for his mate.

“But, Stan,” she said, with a pretty air of disappointment, “I thought it was all going to be so different.  Why, except for the mountains, and those poor Indians over there, this might all be in some little town back home.  I thought there would be cowboys riding about everywhere, with long hair and big hats, and guns and things.”

Stanford and his friends who were standing near laughed.

“I fear, Mrs. Manning,” remarked Mr. Richards, one of Prescott’s bank presidents, “that Stanford has been telling you wild west stories.  The West moves as well as the East, you know.  We are becoming civilized.”

“Indeed you are, Mr. Richards,” Helen returned.  “And I don’t think I like it a bit.  It’s not fair to your poor eastern sight-seers, like myself.”

“If you are really so anxious to see a sure enough cowboy, look over there,” said Stanford, and pointed across the street.

“Where?” demanded Helen eagerly.

“There,” smiled Stanford, “the dark-faced chap near that automobile standing by the curb; the machine with the pretty girl at the wheel.  See! he is stopping to talk with the girl.”

“What!  That nice looking man, dressed just like thousands of men that we might see any day on the streets of Cleveland?” cried Helen.