her misfortune to incite.  She felt herself stiffen with a shock that was unfamiliar.  This man was scarcely many years older than Glenn, yet he had grizzled hair, a seamed and scarred visage, coarse, thick lips, and beetling brows, from under which peered gleaming light eyes.  At every turn he flashed them upon Carley’s face, her neck, the swell of her bosom.  It was instinct that caused her hastily to close her riding coat.  She felt as if her flesh had been burned.  Like a snake he fascinated her.  The intelligence in his bold gaze made the beastliness of it all the harder to endure, all the stronger to arouse.

“Come, Carley, let’s rustle out of this stinkin’ mess,” cried Flo.

Indeed, Carley needed Flo’s assistance in clambering down out of the choking smoke and horrid odor.

“Adios, pretty eyes,” called the big man from the pen.

“Well,” ejaculated Flo, when they got out, “I’ll bet I call Glenn good and hard for letting you go down there.”

“It was—­my—­fault,” panted Carley.  “I said I’d stand it.”

“Oh, you’re game, all right.  I didn’t mean the dip. . . .  That sheep-slinger is Haze Ruff, the toughest hombre on this range.  Shore, now, wouldn’t I like to take a shot at him? . . .  I’m going to tell dad and Glenn.”

“Please don’t,” returned Carley, appealingly.

“I shore am.  Dad needs hands these days.  That’s why he’s lenient.  But Glenn will cowhide Ruff and I want to see him do it.”

In Flo Hutter then Carley saw another and a different spirit of the West, a violence unrestrained and fierce that showed in the girl’s even voice and in the piercing light of her eyes.

They went back to the horses, got their lunches from the saddlebags, and, finding comfortable seats in a sunny, protected place, they ate and talked.  Carley had to force herself to swallow.  It seemed that the horrid odor of dip and sheep had permeated everything.  Glenn had known her better than she had known herself, and he had wished to spare her an unnecessary and disgusting experience.  Yet so stubborn was Carley that she did not regret going through with it.

“Carley, I don’t mind telling you that you’ve stuck it out better than any tenderfoot we ever had here,” said Flo.

“Thank you.  That from a Western girl is a compliment I’ll not soon forget,” replied Carley.

“I shore mean it.  We’ve had rotten weather.  And to end the little trip at this sheep-dip hole!  Why, Glenn certainly wanted you to stack up against the real thing!”

“Flo, he did not want me to come on the trip, and especially here,” protested Carley.

“Shore I know.  But he let you.”

“Neither Glenn nor any other man could prevent me from doing what I wanted to do.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” drawled Flo, “I’ll differ with you.  I reckon Glenn Kilbourne is not the man you knew before the war.”

“No, he is not.  But that does not alter the case.”