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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."