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"Some young women need punishing. I expect you're one."

She handed him the horsewhip, a sudden pulse of passion beating

fiercely in her throat. "Very well. Make an end of it and let me

see the last of you," she challenged.

He cracked the lash expertly so that the horses quivered and

would have started if his strong hand had not tightened on the

lines.

The Westerner laughed again. "You're game anyhow."

"When you are quite through with me," she suggested, very

quietly.

But he noticed the fury of her deep-pupiled eyes, the turbulent

rise and fall of her bosom.

"I'll not punish you that way this time." And he gave back the

whip.

"If you won't use it I will."

The lash flashed up and down, twined itself savagely round his

wrist, and left behind a bracelet of crimson. Startled, the

horses leaped forward. The reins slipped free from his numbed

fingers. Miss Kinney had made her good-by and was descending

swiftly into the valley.