Knights of the Range. Zane Grey

fer the killin’ of friends or relatives. Or by genuine bad men he has got the best of. Or by the bluff bad hombres or wild cowboys who’d like the fame of killin’ him.”

      “Oh!—Frayne is indeed to be pitied,” murmured Holly.

      “Look at his hands next time you get a chance. Kept careful as yores, Holly. I’ll bet Frayne never chops wood or digs post-holes. He keeps them hands limber an’ soft so thet he can handle them guns swift as lightnin’.”

      “I can excuse his rudeness,” concluded Holly, and bade her foreman goodnight.

      * * * *

      Holly was at breakfast in her room when she heard a familiar clinking step out upon the path. She was expecting Britt, but this step was quicker and more vibrant than that of the old Texan.

      “Mawnin’, Cap,” spoke up a lazy resonant voice. “How’s our Lady of the Rancho?”

      “Howdy, Brazos,” returned Britt, who evidently had arrived first. “Haven’t seen her yet this mornin’. She’s late. But yesterday knocked her oot, I dare say.”

      “Who’s the flowery-vested caird-sharp I jest met?”

      “Name’s Lascelles. From New Orleans. Dropped in heah yesterday with thet wagon-train. Used to know Holly when she was at school. She confessed she’d flirted a little with him before she found oot he was a gambler. An’ he pestered her after thet. It was plain last night thet he meant to take advantage of the early acquaintance.”

      “Wal, you don’t say,” drawled Brazos, in a tone that sent little shivers over Holly.

      “Yes, I do say,” rejoined Britt, testily. “Dog-gone! We never know what’s goin’ to bob up. Lascelles fetched his pack. An’ I had to give him a room. If he hangs aboot heah it’ll be unpleasant fer Holly.”

      “How you know thet?”

      “She told him plumb oot thet she had no wish to renew the acquaintance.”

      “Ah-huh. Holly can shore tell a fellar. . . . What you gonna do aboot it?”

      “Reckon I’ll give Lascelles a hint to leave with the wagon-train.”

      “Holly won’t like thet. It ain’t Ripple hospitality.”

      “But the four-flusher might set down to live heah. Thet’s happened before.”

      “Shore. But if Holly doesn’t like the galoot he wouldn’t be around long.”

      “I savvy. You’d set in a little game of cairds with him, huh? An’ then we’d have to plant another stiff back on the hill. Brazos, you’re just plain devil.”

      “See heah, boss. Haven’t you forgot thet little confab you had with me when you persuaded me to ride heah?”

      “No, Brazos. But I hate to distress Holly. She was game yesterday. All the same thet blood-lettin’ made her sick. . . . Besides, dog-gone-it, I don’t want you to get any wuss name on the range. I like you, Brazos.”

      “You don’t say? Nobody’d ever notice it. Wal, there’s some hope of me likin’ you, Cap.”

      Holly finished her coffee rather hurriedly, and went through the living-room to the door. Britt was sitting on the porch steps, looking up at his tall companion. Brazos Keene was the youngest, the wildest, the most untamable, yet the most fascinating and lovable of all Holly’s cowboys. His slim, round-limbed rider’s figure lost little from the ragged garb and shiny leather; his smooth tanned face, fresh and clear as a girl’s, clean-cut and regular as a cameo, his half-shut, wild blue eyes and clustering fair hair, all proclaimed his glad youth and irresistible attractiveness, without a hint of his magnificent lawlessness and that he was a combination of fire and ice and steel.

      “Howdy, Texans. Come right in,” invited Holly, gayly.

      “Mawnin’, Lady,” drawled Brazos, doffing his sombrero.

      “How air you, Holly?” asked Britt, rising uncovered.

      “My dreams were troubled, but I am fine this morning.”

      “Thet’s good. You was so late I . . . Wal, I cain’t waste more time. The wagons air heah, Holly. There’s a whole wagon-load fer you. Jim said ‘Shore we know spring is come!’ . . . Boxes, bags, an’ what not? Where’ll I have the boys pack this stuff?”

      “In the patio by my storeroom. Have the boxes opened, Britt.”

      “All ready fer you in less’n an hour,” returned Britt, stepping down. “Adios, Holly.” . . . Then he looked at Brazos, as if prompted by an afterthought. “Say, cowboy, rustle along pronto.”

      “Aw, boss, I have a report to make,” complained Brazos.

      “Wal, cut it short an’ leave oot the smoke,” concluded Britt, curtly.

      “Come in, Brazos. I’d rather not see the frocked gentleman who is loitering around.”

      “Thet pale-faced gent!—Britt told aboot him,” said Brazos, and following her into the room to her desk he took her hand. “Holly, you never was in love with him?”

      “No. I don’t believe I ever imagined that. But I was pining for company—for masculine company, I confess. Then I was mad at my teachers. I met this Lascelles and I was a foolish girl. It was an adventure. I flirted with him—a little.”

      “Holly, you never let him kiss you?”

      “Gracious no! Nor allowed him to hold my hand as you are doing now. . . . Brazos, promise me you won’t pick a fight with Lascelles.”

      His imperturbability lay only on the surface. Holly felt the throb of his sinewy hand and the blue flame of his eyes.

      “Promise me,” she repeated, imperiously.

      “Why should I, Lady?”

      “Because you are more to me than just one of my cowboys.”

      “Yore word is the only law I know. . . . Holly, do you care anythin’ aboot me atall?”

      “Si, señor,” she replied, smiling, and gently endeavoring to remove her hand.

      “When I fust come to this rancho you liked me a heap, Holly. An’ it kept me straight. You rode with me more’n any of yore riders. My land, how jealous they was! An’ I got my hopes up, Holly.”

      “Hopes of what, you foolish boy?”

      “Wal, thet you’d love me—an’ marry me some day,” he replied, with a soft frankness that touched Holly with contrition.

      “Brazos, I do like you a heap. I am proud that I have kept you straight. But I do not love you.”

      “Aw! . . . Thet night at the fandango—last summer. You let me kiss you!”

      “No, Brazos.”

      “But, Lady, you made no fuss. An’ you didn’t run off or—or slap me.”

      “Brazos, please be honest. You kissed me, not by force, but by surprise.”

      “My Gawd, girls air strange!—Holly, how aboot my puttin’ my arm around you thet night in the buckboard, when I drove you home from San Marcos?”

      “Yes, you did. I was very foolish, Brazos—and cold, too.”

      “Then it never meant nothin’ atall,” said Brazos, with pathos. “Not even at first?”

      “Brazos, I asked you to be honest,” replied Holly, earnestly. “So I can be no less. . . . I never quite understood myself. I did have a—a sweet, romantic feeling for you. I did. But I had had that before. It didn’t last. And I’ve had it since. For that young army officer who came here wounded and we cared for him. It didn’t last, either. I am a fickle jade, Brazos. It must be my Spanish blood. But I do really love you, Brazos—as