They of the High Trails. Garland Hamlin

      "YOU'RE PRETTY SWIFT, AREN'T YOU?" SHE SAID, CUTTINGLYToList

      "Good idea!" exclaimed Roy. "I'll help."

      He had been in a good many exciting mix-ups with steers, bears, cayuses, sheriffs' posses, and Indians, but this was easily the most stirring and amazing hour of his life. While his pony slowly slid away up the hill to feed, he, with flapping gun and rattling spurs, swept, polished, and lifted things for Lida—that was her name—Lida Converse.

      "My folks live in Colorado Springs," she explained in answer to his questions. "My mother is not very well, and father is East, so I had to come. Uncle Dan was pretty bad when I got here, only not like he is now. This fit came on after the doctor went away at nine."

      "I'm glad your father was East," declared the raider, who was unable to hold to a serious view of the matter, now that he was in the midst of a charming and intimate conversation. "Just think—if he had 'a' come, I'd never have seen you!"

      She faced him in surprise and disapproval of his boldness. "You're pretty swift, aren't you?" she said, cuttingly.

      "A feller's got to be in this country," he replied, jauntily.

      She was prepared to be angry with him, but his candid, humorous, admiring gaze disarmed her. "You've been very nice," she said, "and I feel very grateful; but I guess you better not say any more such things to me—to-night."

      "You mustn't forget I chased off them redskins."

      "You said they were cowboys."

      "Of course I did; I wanted to calm your mind."

      She was a little puzzled by his bluffing. "I don't believe there are any Indians over here."

      "Well, if they were cowboys, they were a fierce lot."

      She considered. "I've told you I feel grateful. What more can I do?"

      "A good deal; but, as you say, that can go over till to-morrow. Did I tell you that I had a bunch of cattle of my own?"

      "I don't remember of it."

      "Well, I have. I'm not one of these crazy cowboys who blows in all his wad on faro and drink—not on your life! I've got some ready chink stacked away in a Claywall bank. Want to see my bank-book?"

      She answered, curtly: "Please take that kettle of slop out and empty it. And what time did you say the express was due?"

      Roy was absorbed, ecstatic. He virtually forgot all the rest of the world. His herders could ride to the north pole, his pony might starve, the Cannonball Express go over the cliff, the postmaster die, so long as he was left in service to this princess.

      "Lord A'mighty! wasn't I in luck?" he repeated to himself. "Suppose I'd 'a' roped her instead of the old man!"

      When he returned from listening for the train he found her washing her hands at the end of her task, and the room in such order as it had never known before. The sight of her standing there, flushed and very womanly, rolling down her sleeves, was more than the young fellow could silently observe.

      "I hope the old man'll be a long time getting well," he said, abruptly.

      "That's a nice thing to say! What do you mean by such a cruel wish?"

      "I see my finish when you go away. No more lonely ranch-life for me."

      "If you start in on that talk again I will not speak to you," she declared, and she meant it.

      "All right, I'll shut up; but I want to tell you I'm a trailer for keeps, and you can't lose me, no matter where you go. From this time on I forget everything in the world but you."

      With a look of resolute reproof she rose and joined Mrs. James in the inner room, leaving Roy cowed and a good deal alarmed.

      "I reckon I'm a little too swift," he admitted; "but, oh, my soul! she's a peach!"

      When the train whistled, Lida came out again. "Will you please go to meet the doctor?" she asked, with no trace of resentment in her manner.

      "Sure thing; I was just about starting," he replied, instantly.

      While he was gone she asked Mrs. James if she knew the young man, and was much pleased to find that the sharp-tongued landlady had only good words to say of Roy Pierce.

      "He's no ordinary cowboy," she explained. "If he makes up to you you needn't shy."

      "Who said he was making up to me? I never saw him before."

      "I want to know! Well, anybody could see with half an eye that he was naturally rustlin' round you. I thought you'd known each other for years."

      This brought tears of mortification to the girl's eyes. "I didn't mean to be taken that way. Of course I couldn't help being grateful, after all he'd done; but I think it's a shame to be so misunderstood. It's mean and low down of him—and poor uncle so sick."

      "Now don't make a hill out of an ant-heap," said the old woman, vigorously. "No harm's done. You're a mighty slick girl, and these boys don't see many like you out here in the sage-brush and piñons. Facts are, you're kind o' upsettin' to a feller like Roy. You make him kind o' drunk-like. He don't mean to be sassy."

      "Well, I wish you'd tell him not to do anything more for me. I don't want to get any deeper in debt to him."

      The Claywall physician came into the little room as silently as a Piute. He was a plump, dark little man of impassive mien, but seemed to know his business. He drove the girl out of the room, but drafted Mrs. James and Roy into service.

      "It's merely a case of indigestion," said he; "but it's plenty serious enough. You see, the distended stomach pressing against the heart—"

      The girl, sitting in the kitchen and hearing the swift and vigorous movement within, experienced a revulsion to the awe and terror of the midnight. For the second time in her life death had come very close to her, but in this case her terror was shot through with the ruddy sympathy of a handsome, picturesque young cavalier. She could not be really angry with him, though she was genuinely shocked by his reckless disregard of the proprieties; for he came at such a dark and lonely and helpless hour, and his prompt and fearless action in silencing those dreadful cowboys was heroic. Therefore, when the doctor sent Roy out to say that her uncle would live, a part of her relief and joy shone upon the young rancher, who was correspondingly exalted.

      "Now you must let me hang round till he gets well," he said, forgetful of all other duties.

      "That reminds me. You'll need some breakfast," she said, hurriedly; "for here comes the sun." And as she spoke the light of the morning streamed like a golden river into the little room.

      "It's me to the wood-pile, then," cried Roy, and his smile was of a piece with the sunshine on the wall.

      II

      Beside the fallen monarch of the wood the lifting saplings bud and intertwine. So over the stern old postmaster these young people re-enacted the most primitive drama in the world. Indifferent to the jeers of his fellows, Roy devoted himself to the service of "The Badger's Niece," and was still in town when McCoy returned from "the East"; that is to say, from Kansas City.

      Lida had ceased to protest against the cowboy's attendance and his love-making, for the good reason that her protests were unavailing. He declined to take offense, and he would not remain silent. A part of his devotion was due, of course, to his sense of guilt, and yet this was only a small part. True, he had sent warnings and dire threats to silence his band of marauders; but he did not feel keenly enough about their possible tale-bearing to carry his warnings in person. "I can't spare the time," he argued, knowing that Lida would be going home in a few days and that his world would then be blank.

      "I lose too much of you," he said to her once; "I can't afford to have you out of my sight a minute."

      She