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"Don't shoot me," a voice implored with laughter--a warm, vivid

voice, that struck pleasantly on his memory.

The Texan turned lazily, and leaned on his elbow. She came

smiling out of the brush, light as a roe, and with much of its

slim, supple grace. Before, he had seen her veiled by night; the

day disclosed her a dark, spirited young creature. The mass of

blue-black hair coiled at the nape of the brown neck, the flash

of dark eyes beneath straight, dark eyebrows, together with a

certain deliberation of movement that was not languor, made it

impossible to doubt that she was a Southerner by inheritance, if

not by birth.

"I don't reckon I will," he greeted, smiling. "Down in Texas it

ain't counted right good manners to shoot up young ladies."

"And in Wyoming you think it is."

"I judge by appearances, ma'am."