To the hard-riding cowboy of the plains, the subtleties of emotion and romance are a closed book—just as the hand that whirls the rope is too crabbed to play the violin. Some of us in this world must do the heavy work. Some hands must be knotted, some backs bent with labor, some brows furrowed with wind and weather and the hard realities of life; but in return the laborers gain the strength of the wind-tossed oak and the patience of the ages. There are others whose lot it is to write the poetry and paint the pictures and reach out into the great unknown for a thousand haunting chords and harmonies; but they are a people apart. Their very sensitiveness makes them unequal to the stress of life; their slender hands cannot perform hard labor, and their hearts cannot endure the monotony and anguish of unremitting toil—yet they have their place in the world.

The time may come when the tasks and rewards will be divided again and each of us be given a more equal share, but until that day men will fall into classes—and neither will understand the other. Samuel Bowles had lived the protected life, but Brigham had buffeted his way. At the story of the Lady Christabel he stood agape, marveling at the man who could perceive such subtle advances, wondering at the nature that would flee for such a cause; but in the end he gazed upon him pityingly, and accepted him for his friend.

"I'll tell you, pardner," he said, as they drifted their cattle along; "I'm up ag'inst it, too. They's a gal over on the river—don't make no difference about her name—but I used to think a lot of her. Wasn't skeered of her none, the way I am with Dix. She was an awful good girl, too—no fly ways or nothin'—an' I was kinder fixin' to marry her when I had this racket with the bishop. My folks are all Mormons, of course, and so are hers, and I like 'em well enough in certain ways, but I can't stand them dang priests. As long as I'm free I can pull out and go where I please, but the minute I marry and settle down I'm up ag'inst it proper."

"Why, what's the matter?" inquired Bowles, thinking of all the awful things he had heard about the Saints, but discreetly holding his peace. "Will they punish you for running away?"

"No," answered Brigham, shaking his head dolefully, "it ain't that—it's the things they make you do. I'm a renegade now—I don't pay tithes or nothin'—but if I settled down on the river I'd have to come in ag'in. Mebbe jist about the time I'm married they summon me fer a mission. Two years to some foreign country to bring in converts to the church—an' who's goin' to take care of my wife?"

"Oh!" breathed Bowles sympathetically. "That is bad! Why don't you get married and live somewhere else, then?"

"That's jest it," frowned Brigham. "Gal's a Mormon too, and she won't come. So there I am!"

"Ah!" said Bowles; and they rode a long time in silence.

"That letter was from her," volunteered Brigham, jerking his head back toward the place where they had been camped, and after that he said no more. The old cynical look came into his squinted eyes, and he strung out the cattle methodically until they came to the home ranch. It was four o'clock in the afternoon then, and they lay over until the next day.

The Bat Wing bunk-house was hardly a cheery lounging place. Outside of the illustrated magazine literature with which the walls were papered, the library consisted of three books—a boot, spur and saddle catalogue, "Lin McLean," and that classic of the cow camps, "Three Weeks." When the entire outfit was at "the home," Happy Jack was in the habit of reading choice passages of "Three Weeks" to his friends, he being the scholar of the bunch, and closing each selection with the remark: "Well, I reckon that's plain enough for you, ain't it?" And the boys would generally agree that it was.

With the memory of Happy Jack still in mind, Bowles took shame to himself and read Owen Wister's "Lin McLean" instead, finding there a tenderfoot on another range who was worse even than himself. As things were coming now, Bowles hardly considered himself a tenderfoot any more. To be sure, he could not rope in the corral; but there were several local punchers in the same fix; and when it came to riding, he still had Wa-ha-lote in his string as a tribute to his skill as a fence jumper. He had also sat out a bucking fit or two when the boys put high-life on his horse; and, taken all in all he was not the worst rider in the outfit, by any means. As a branding hand, also, he was able to do his share; he had learned some of the rudiments of handling cattle; and his face had peeled off and tanned again, leaving him with a complexion in no wise different from that of his bronzed companions. And then, to top it all, he had won the friendship of Brigham, who was so good that he passed for a cowman.

Poor old Brigham! He never said what was in that letter from his girl, but Bowles knew he was wrestling with his problem. His carefree laugh was silenced for the time and, after cooking up a little food in the kitchen that stood next to the bunk-house, he had caught up a fresh mount and ridden off alone. The windmill man and the fence mender were out on their rounds, and Bowles was reading "The Winning of the Biscuit-shooter" and wondering if it was true, when a horse trotted into the yard. Presently he heard a saddle hit the ground, and the pasture gate swing to, and then there was a clank of spurs on the stoop. The door swung open, and as he glanced up from where he lay he saw Dixie Lee looking in at him.

The instincts of a lifetime prompted Bowles to rise to his feet and bow, but other instincts were crowding in on him now, and he only nodded his head. The memory, perhaps, of a fake letter to Samuel Houghton gave color to his indifference, and for the first time in his life he gazed at her with a shadow of disapproval. She was glorious indeed to look upon; but it is the heart that counts, and Dixie had seemed a little unkind. So he lay there with the book before him, and waited for her to speak. It was the first time they had been alone together since he had left her at Chula Vista, and it was not his part to make advances after what she had told him then.

As for Dixie, she seemed suddenly embarrassed and ill at ease, though she carried it off with her usual frontier recklessness.

"Hello there, cowboy!" she said, dropping down on the steps. "Where'd you come from?"

"I came from the upper water with Brig," answered Bowles, speaking for his part with decorous politeness. "We brought down a bunch of twos."

A smile swept over Dixie Lee's face at this lapse into the vernacular, but she brushed it away as he frowned.

"Bunch of twos, eh?" she repeated. "Say, you're getting to be a regular cowboy now, ain't you?

"Where's Brig?" she inquired, when she saw that her remark displeased him; and once more he answered and fell silent.

"He's a great fellow, old Brig," she went on, settling herself comfortably against the door-sill and indicating that the conversation was on; "you seem to be pretty thick with him!"

"Yes," agreed Bowles, sitting up and laying his book aside; "I like Brigham very much."

"He's a great fellow to tell stories," continued Dixie; "always talking and laughing, too—I never did see such a good-natured man."

"Yes," assented Bowles a little doubtfully; "I guess he's awfully good-natured—but even fat folks have their troubles, you know."

"Why, what's the matter with Brig? Has he run out of chewing tobacco?"

"Well, no," said Bowles; "it's not that. I guess it's that letter you gave him."

"Letter!" repeated Dixie incredulously. "What, from his girl? Oh, he'll be all right in a day or so—who ever heard of a cowboy going into a decline? And say, talking about letters, why didn't you take that one I wrote you the other day? I had something mighty special to communicate to you in that, but you'll never get it now! I hope the boys did something to you!"

"Yes," answered Bowles serenely; "they hazed me for a day or two. You seem to have a great many admirers out here, Miss Lee."

Dixie May's eyes flashed at the evident implication, and she had a retort on her lips, but something in his manner restrained her.

"How can I help it if the boys get foolish?" she demanded severely. "And you don't want to let your Eastern ideas deceive you—it's the custom of the country out here."

"Yes, indeed," purled Bowles; "and a very pretty custom, too. Have you just come back from Chula Vista?"

"Yes, I have!" snapped Dixie. "But you don't need to get so superior about it! I guess I can do what I please, can't I?"

"Why, certainly," assented Bowles.

"Well, then, what do you want to get so supercilious for?" raged Dixie. "I don't know, there's something about the way you talk that fairly maddens me! I've a good mind to tell the boys who you are, and have them run you out of the country! Why didn't you take that letter I wrote you?"

She was angry now, and her voice was pitched high for a scolding, but Bowles showed no signs of fear.

"The letter you wrote was addressed to Samuel Houghton," he said; "and that is not my name."

"Well, what is your name, then?" demanded Dixie. "Bowles?"

For a moment Bowles gazed at her, and there was a pained look in his eyes—what if his beloved should turn out to be a scold?

"Why do you ask?" he inquired; and so gently did he say it that she faltered, as if ashamed.

"Well," she said, "I guess it isn't any of my business, is it? I don't know what I'm doing here, anyway. If there's any one thing that makes Mother furious, it's to see me hanging around the bunk-house. She thinks I——"

She rose suddenly, and shook out her skirt, but Bowles did not protest.

"You don't seem to care whether I go or not?" she pouted.

"Quite the contrary, I assure you, Miss Lee," declared Bowles earnestly. "But I'm not on my own ground now, and—well, I don't wish to take advantage of your hospitality."

"No," said Dixie with gentle irony, "nothing like that! You want to be careful how you treat these Arizona girls—they're liable to misunderstand your motives!"

"'YOU WANT TO BE CAREFUL HOW YOU TREAT THESE ARIZONA GIRLS!'"

Bowles' eyes lighted up with a merry twinkle, but he preserved his poker face.

"Oh, I hope not!" he said; and then both of them smiled very knowingly.

"The reason I wanted to get your name," observed Dixie, sitting down and smoothing out her skirt again, "was in case you got hurt or killed. Who am I going to write to in case you go out like Dunbar? Houghton? Bowles? Or who-all? You know, I feel kind of responsible for you, considering the way you got out here, and——"

"Oh, don't think of that!" protested Bowles, coming over and sitting near her. "If I get hurt, the boys will take care of me; and if I get killed—well, it won't matter then what you do."

"Well, don't get killed," urged Dixie kindly. "And if you get hurt, Mother and I will nurse you back to health and strength."

"Oh, will you?" cried Bowles. "I'll remember that, you may be sure! But, speaking of names, has there been any one in Chula Vista inquiring for Samuel Houghton?"

"Now, you see!" exclaimed Dixie Lee triumphantly. "If you'd opened that letter I had for you, you'd have found out about it. As it is, you'll just have to keep on guessing—I'm mad!"

"I'm sorry," said Bowles. "The reason I asked was, Brig and I are planning to make a little trip somewhere, and if I thought there was any one searching for me I'd——"

"Oh, you don't need to run away!" explained Dixie hurriedly. "I'll tell you when to skip—but you don't know what you missed by not reading that letter I wrote you!"

"Well, direct the next one to Bowles, then!" he pleaded. "But, no joking, I wish you wouldn't call attention to that other name—it's likely to get me into difficulties."

"What kind of difficulties?" inquired Dixie Lee demurely; but Bowles only shook his head.

"I'm very sorry I can't tell you," he said; "but it means a great deal to me."

"Maybe I can help you," she suggested.

"Yes, indeed, you can!" assured Bowles, drawing nearer and smiling his naive smile. "Just don't tell anybody what you know, and let me have a chance. I've always been shut off from the world, you know—I've never had a chance. Just let me fight my way and see if I'm not a man. I know I'm new, and there are lots of things that come hard for me; but give me a chance to stay and maybe I'll win out. You don't know, Miss Lee, how much I treasure those stories you told me—when we were coming West on the train, you know. Don't you know, I think you have more of the feeling, more of the fine spirit of the West, than any one I have met. These cowboys seem so barren, some way; they seem to take it as a matter of course. And they all stay away from me—except Brigham. I don't get many stories now."

He paused and Dixie May eyed him curiously. He was not the same man who had traveled with her on the train. A month had made a difference with him. But there was still the boyish innocence that she liked.

"You mean stories about outlaws and Indians?" she said. "Hunting and trapping, and all that?"

"Yes!" nodded Bowles, glancing over at her appealingly. "Where does that old trapper, Bill Jump, live? You know—the one you were telling about!"

"Oh, Bill? He lives up here on the Black Mesa—anywhere between here and the New Mexico line—and he sure is one of the grandest liars that ever breathed, too. I remember one time——"

Bowles settled himself inside the doorway and drank in the magical tale. It was as if the Old West rose up before him, blotting out the barbed-wire fences and the lonely homes of the nesters and bringing back the age of romance that he sought. He questioned her eagerly, still watching her with his boyish, admiring eyes, and Dixie plunged into another. The sun, which was getting low, swung lower and a door slammed up at the big house. Then a reproachful voice came floating down, and Dixie jumped up from her seat.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "There's Maw—seems like I never get any peace! But, anyway, this old bear with the trap on his foot picked up Bill's gun and threw the chamber open, then he looked up into the tree where Bill was hanging and crooked his finger—like that! And Bill Jump said he knowed it jest as if that ol' b'ar spoke—he was signaling him to throw him down a cartridge, so he could put Bill out of his misery! Or that was what Bill said. But, say, I've got to be running—come up to the house to-night and let me tell you the rest of it! Oh, pshaw, we know what your motives are! Come along anyhow! And bring Brig with you! All right—good-by!"

She gave him a dizzy smile over her shoulder as she fled, and Bowles blinked his eyes to find the world so fair.