you."
"See any more you wants?"
"No; this is enough. Thank you for getting it for me."
"Oh, shucks; that was nothing," he laughed awkwardly. "That was shore easy."
"I'm going to give it to you for not scolding me about being over th' line," she said, holding it out to him.
"No; not for that," he said slowly. "Can't you think of some other reason?"
"Don't you want it?"
"Want it!" he exclaimed, eagerly. "Shore I want it. But not for what you said."
"Will you wear it because we're friends?"
"Now yo're talking!"
She looked up and laughed, her cheeks dimpling, and then pinned it to his shirt, while he held his breath lest the inflation of his lungs bother her. It was nice to have a flower pinned on one's shirt by a pretty girl.
"There," she laughed, stepping back to look at it.
"Gosh!" he complained, ruefully. "You've pinned it up so high I can't see it. Why not put it lower down?"
She changed it while he grinned at how his scheming had born fruit. He was a hog, he knew that, but he did not care.
"Oh, I reckon I'm all right!" he exulted. "Shore you don't see no more you want?"
"Yes; an' I must go now," she replied, going towards her horse. "I'll be late with th' dinner if I don't hurry."
"What! Do you cook for that hungry outfit?"
"No, not for them—just for Paw an' me."
"When are you comin' up again for more flowers?"
"I don't know. You see, I'm going to make cookies some day this week, but I don't know just when. Do you like cookies, an' cake?"
"You bet I do! Why?"
"I'll bring some with me th' next time. Paw says they're th' best he ever ate."
"Bet I'll say so, too," he replied, stepping forward to help her into the saddle, but she sprang into it before he reached her side, and he vaulted on his own horse and joined her.
She suddenly turned and looked him straight in the eyes. "Tell me, honest, has yore ranch any right to keep our cows south of that line?"
"Yes, we have. Our boundaries are fixed. We gave th' Three Triangle about eighty square miles of range so our valley would be free from all cows but our own. That's all th' land between th' line an' th' Jumping Bear, an' it was a big price, too. They never drove a cow over on us."
She looked disappointed and toyed with her quirt.
"Why don't you want to let Paw use th' valley?"
"It ain't big enough for our own cows, an' we can't share it. As it is, we'll have to drive ten thousand on leased range next year to give our grass a rest."
"Well—" she stopped and he waited to hear what she would say, and then asked her when she would be up again.
"I don't know! I don't know!" she cried.
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing. I'm foolish—that's all," she replied, smiling, and trying to forget the picture which arose in her mind, a picture of desperate fighting along the line; of her father—and him.
"You scared me then," he said.
"Did I? Why, it wasn't anything."
"Are you shore?"
"Please don't ask me any questions," she requested.
"Will you be up here again soon?"
"If th' baking turns out all right."
"Hang the baking! come anyway."
"I'll try; but I'm afraid," she faltered.
"Of what?" he demanded, sitting up very straight.
"Why, that I can't," she replied, hurriedly. "You see, it's far coming up here."
"That's easy. I'll meet you west of th' hills."
"No, no! I'll come up here."
"Look here," he said, slowly and kindly. "If yo're afraid of bein' seen with me, don't you try it. I want to see you a whole lot, but I don't want you to have no trouble with yore father about it. I can wait till everything is all right if you want me to."
She turned and faced him, her cheeks red. "No, it ain't that, exactly. Don't ask me any more. Don't talk about it. I'll come, all right, just as soon as I can."
They were on the line now and she held out her hand.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye for now. Try to come up an' see me as soon as you can. If yo're worryin' because that Greaser don't like me, stop it. I've been in too many tight places to get piped out where there's elbow room."
"I asked you not to say nothing more about it," she chided. "I'll come when I can. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," he replied, his sombrero under his arm. He watched her until she became lost to sight and then, suspicious, wheeled, and saw Johnny sitting quietly on his horse several hundred yards away. He called his friend to him by one wide sweep of his arm and Johnny spurred forward.
"Follow me, Johnny," he cried, dashing towards the arroyo. "Take th' other side an' look for that Greaser. I'll take this side. Edge off; yo're too close. Three hundred yards is about right."
They raced away at top speed, reckless and grim, Johnny not knowing just what it was all about; but the word Greaser needed no sauce to whet his appetite since the day he had caught Antonio watching his friend on the hill, and he scanned the plain eagerly. When they reached the other end of the arroyo Hopalong called to him: "Sweep east an' back to th' line on a circle. If you catch him, shoot off yore Colt an' hold him for me. I'm going west."
When they saw each other again it was on the line, and neither had seen any traces of Antonio, to Johnny's vexation and Hopalong's great satisfaction.
"What's up, Hoppy?" shouted Johnny.
"I reckoned that Greaser might 'a followed her so he could tell tales to Meeker," Hopalong called.
Johnny swept up recklessly, jauntily, a swagger almost in the very actions of his horse, which seemed to have caught the spirit of its rider.
"Caught you that time," he laughed—and Johnny, when in a teasing mood, could weave into his laughter an affectionate note which found swift pardon for any words he might utter. "You an' her shore make a good—" and then he saw the flower on his friend's shirt and for the moment was rendered speechless by surprise. But in him the faculty of speech was
