“’Lo, Boots,” he greeted his sister, and fastened his black eyes on her guest.

Beaudry noticed that he did not take off his hat or lift his leg from the chair.

“Mr. Street, this is my brother Hal.  I don’t need to tell you that he hasn’t been very well brought up.”

Young Rutherford did not accept the hint.  “My friends take me as they find me, sis.  Others can go to Guinea.”

Beulah flushed with annoyance.  She drew one of the gauntlets from her hand and with the fingers of it flipped the hat from the head of her brother.  Simultaneously her foot pushed away the chair upon which his leg rested.

He jumped up, half inclined to be angry.  After a moment he thought better of it, and grinned.

“I’m not the only member of the family shy on manners, Boots,” he said.  “What’s the matter with you?  Showing off before company?”

“I’d have a fine chance with you three young rowdies in the house,” she retorted derisively.  “Where’s dad?”

As if in answer to her question the door opened to let in a big, middle-aged rancher with a fine shock of grizzled hair and heavy black eyebrows.  Beulah went through the formula of introduction again, but without it Beaudry would have known this hawk-nosed man whose gaze bored into his.  The hand he offered to Hal Rutherford was cold and clammy.  A chill shiver passed through him.

The young woman went on swiftly to tell how her guest had rescued her from the wolf trap and walked home beside her while she rode his horse.

“I’ll send for Doc Spindler and have him look at your ankle, honey,” the father announced at once.

“Oh, it’s all right—­bruised up a bit—­that’s all,” Beulah objected.

“We’ll make sure, Boots.  Slap a saddle on and ride for the Doc, Hal.”  When the young man had left the room, his father turned again to Roy.  His arm gathered in the girl beside him.  “We’re sure a heap obliged to you, Mr. Street.  It was right lucky you happened along.”

To see the father and daughter together was evidence enough of the strong affection that bound them.  The tone in which he had spoken to his son had been brusque and crisp, but when he addressed her, his voice took on a softer inflection, his eyes betrayed the place she held in his heart.

The man looked what he was—­the chief of a clan, the almost feudal leader of a tribe which lived outside the law.  To deny him a certain nobility of appearance was impossible.  Young Beaudry guessed that he was arrogant, but this lay hidden under a manner of bluff frankness.  One did not need a second glance to see from whom the younger Rutherfords had inherited their dark, good looks.  The family likeness was strong in all of them, but nature had taken her revenge for the anti-social life of the father.  The boys had reverted toward savagery.  They were elemental and undisciplined.  This was, perhaps, true of Beulah also.  There were moments when she suggested in the startled poise of her light body and the flash of her quick eyes a wild young creature of the forest set for night.  But in her case atavism manifested itself charmingly in the untamed grace of a rich young personality vital with life.  It was an interesting speculation whether in twenty years she would develop into a harridan or a woman of unusual character.