THE night of the big fiesta at the Shields ranch had arrived, and the invited guests had gathered from far and near. And what a bevy of pretty girls and gay young fellows they were! Even the cowboys on this occasion were faultless Beau Brummels; chaps, belts, and other frontier regalia were laid aside in favor of the starched shirtfront and dress clothes of the fashionable East. The entertainment was to consist of dancing and song, with a sumptuous supper about the midnight hour.

Roderick of course was there—“by command” of the fair daughter of the house, Barbara Shields. At the entrance to the reception hall the twin sisters gave him cordial welcome, and gaily rallied him on having at last emerged from his anchorite cell. On passing into the crowded room, young Warfield had one of the greatest surprises of his life.

“Hello, Roderick, old scout, how are you anyway?”

Someone had slapped him on the shoulder, and on turning round he found himself face to face with Whitley Adams.

“Whitley, old man!” he gasped in sheer astonishment.

Then followed hand-shaking such as only two old college chums can engage in after a long separation.

“How did it all happen?” inquired Roderick, when the first flush of meeting was over.

“Tell you later,” said Whitley. “Gee, old man, I ought to beat you up for not letting me know all this time where you were.”

“Well, I have been so confoundedly busy,” was the half-apologetic reply.

“And so have I myself. I am taking a post-graduate course just now in being busy. You would never guess what a man of affairs I’ve come to be.”

“You certainly surprise me,” laughed Roderick drily.

“Oh, but I’m going to take your breath away. Since you’ve gone, I’ve become quite chummy with your Uncle Allen.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yes, siree. I think he took to me first of all in the hope that through me he would get news of the lost prodigal—the son of his adoption whose absence he is never tired of deploring.”

“Poor old uncle,” murmured Roderick, affectionately and regretfully.

“Oh, he takes all the blame to himself for having driven you away from home. But here—let’s get into this quiet corner, man. You haven’t yet heard half my news.”

The two chums were soon installed on a seat conveniently masked—for other purposes, no doubt—by pot plants and flowers.

“And how’s dear Aunt Lois?” asked Roderick, as they settled themselves.

“Oh, dear Aunt Lois can wait,” replied Whitley.

“She’s all right—don’t look a day older since I remember her. It is I who am the topic of importance—I”—and he tapped his chest in the fervency of his egoism.

“Well, fire away,” laughed Roderick.

Whitley rambled on: “Well, I was just going to tell you how your uncle and I have been pulling along together fine. After stopping me in the street two or three times to ask me whether I had yet got news of you, he ended in offering me a position in the bank.”

“Gee whizz!”

“Oh, don’t look so demed superior. Why, man alive. I’m a born banker—a born man of affairs! So at least your uncle tells me in the intervals of asking after you.”

“Yes, you’ve certainly taken my breath away. But how come you to be in Encampment, Whitley?”

“On business, of course—important business, you bet, or I wouldn’t have been spared from the office. Oh, I’ll tell you—you’re a member of the firm, or will be some day, which is all the same thing. There’s a fellow here, W. B. Grady, wanting a big loan on some smelter bonds.”

“I know the man. But I thought he was rolling in money.”

“Oh, it’s just the fellows who are rolling in money who need ready money worst,” smiled the embryonic banker with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes. “He’s a big speculator on the outside, make no mistake, even though he may be a staid and stolid business man here. Well, he needs hard cash just at present, and the proposed loan came the way of our bank. Your uncle jumped at it.”

“Security must be pretty good,” laughed Roderick.

“No doubt. But there’s another reason this time for your uncle’s financial alacrity. Seems an old friend of his was swindled out of the identical block of bonds offered by this same Grady, and your uncle sees a possible chance some day of getting them out of his clutches and restoring them to where they properly belong.”

“But all that’s contrary to one of Uncle Allen’s most cherished principles—that friendship and business don’t mix. I’ve heard him utter that formula a score of times.”

“Well, cherished principles or no cherished principles, he seems downright determined this time to let friendship play a hand. He tells me—oh, I’m quite in his confidence, you see—that it’s a matter of personal pride for him to try and win back his fortune for this old friend, General Holden—that’s the name.”

“Holden?—Holden?” murmured Roderick. He seemed to have heard the name before, but could not for the moment locate its owner.

“Yes, General Holden. He’s ranching up here for the present—or rather his daughter is. They say she’s a stunning girl, and my lawyer friend Ben Bragdon has promised to introduce me. Oh, though I’m a man of affairs, old chap, I’ve an eye for a pretty girl too, all the time. And I’m told she’s a top-notcher in the beauty line, this Gail Holden.”

“Gail Holden!” Roderick repeated the name out loud, as he started erect in his seat. He knew who the father was now—the daughter was no other than the mysterious rider of the range.

Whitley’s face wore a quizzical look.

“Hello! you know her then, old chap?”

“I never met her—at least I have never been introduced to her.”

“That’s good hearing. Then we’ll start level tonight. Of course I’ll cut you out in the long run if she proves to be just my style.”

“Go ahead,” smiled Roderick. He had already recovered his self-possession. “But you haven’t informed me yet how you come to know Ben Bragdon, our cleverest young lawyer here, I’ve been told, and likely enough to get the Republican nomination for state senator.”

“Oh, simple enough. I’ve come up to investigate one technical point in regard to those smelter bonds. Well, Ben Bragdon, your political big gun, happens to be your uncle’s legal adviser in Wyoming.”

“Which reminds me,” interposed Roderick earnestly, “that you are not to give away my whereabout, Whitley—just yet.”

“A bit rough on the old uncle not to tell him where you are—or at least let him know that you are safe and well. He loves you dearly, Rod, my boy.”

“And I love him—yes, I’ll admit it, I love him dearly, and Aunt Lois too. But this is a matter of personal pride, Whitley. You spoke a moment ago of Uncle Allen’s personal pride. Well, I’ve got mine too, and that day of my last visit to Keokuk, when he told me that not one dollar of his fortune would ever be mine unless I agreed to certain abominable conditions he chose to lay down, I on my side resolved that I would show him I could win a fortune from the world by my own unaided efforts. And that’s what I’m going to do, Whitley; make no mistake. I don’t want him to butt in and interfere in any way. I am going to play this game absolutely alone, and luckily my name gives no clue to the lawyer Ben Bragdon or anyone else here of my relationship with the rich banker of Keokuk, Allen Miller.”

“Of course, Rod, whatever you say goes. But all the same there can be no harm in my relieving your uncle’s mind by at least telling him that I’ve heard from you—that you are in good health, and all that sort of thing. But you bet I won’t let out where you are or what you are doing. Oh, I’ll go up in the old chap’s estimation by holding on tight to such a secret. To be absolutely immovable when it would be a breach of confidence to be otherwise is part of a successful young banker’s moral make-up, you understand.”

Roderick laughed, his obduracy broken down by the other’s gay insistence.

“All right, old fellow, we’ll let it go at that But as to my being in Wyoming, remember dead secrecy’s the word. Shake hands on that; my faith in such a talented and discreet young banker is implicit. But now we must join the others or they’ll be thinking us rather rude.”

“That—or the dear girls may be fretting out their hearts on my account. A rich young banker from Iowa doesn’t blow into Encampment every day, you know.” And Whitley Adams laughed with all the buoyant pride of youth, good looks, good health, and good spirits. “Come along, dear boy,” he went on, linking his hand in Roderick’s arm. “We’ll find Lawyer Bragdon, get our introductions, and start fair with the beauteous chatelaine of the cattle range.”

Roderick had heard about Ben Bragdon from Grant Jones, but had not as yet happened to meet the brilliant young attorney who was fast becoming a political factor in the state of Wyoming. So it fell to the chance visitor to the town, Whitley Adams, to make these two townsmen acquainted. Bragdon shook Roderick’s hand with all the cordiality and geniality of a born “mixer” and far-seeing politician. But Whitley cut out all talk and unblushingly demanded that he and his friend should be presented without further delay to General Holden’s daughter.

They found her in company with Barbara Shields who, her duties of receiving over, was now mingling with her guests.

“Miss Holden, let me present you to Mr. Roderick Warfield.” The introducer was Ben Bragdon.

“One of papa’s favorite boys,” added Barbara kindly, “and one of our best riders on the range.”

“As I happen to know,” said Gail Holden; and with a frank smile of recognition she extended her hand. “We have already met in the hills.”

Roderick was blushing. “Yes,” he laughed nervously. “I was stupid enough to offer to help you with a young steer. But I didn’t know then I was addressing such a famous horsewoman and expert with the lariat.”

Gail Holden smiled, pleasedly but composedly. She possessed that peculiar modesty of dignified reserve which challenges the respect of men.

“Oh, you would have no doubt done a great deal better than I did,” she replied graciously.

But Whitley Adams had administered a kick to Roderick’s heel, and was now pushing him aside with a muttered: “You never told me you had this flying start, you cunning dog. But it’s my turn now.” And he placed himself before Miss Holden, and was duly presented by Bragdon.

A moment later Whitley was engaging Gail in a sprightly conversation. Roderick turned to Barbara, only to find her appropriated by Ben Bragdon. And Barbara seemed mightily pleased with the young lawyer’s attentions—she was smiling, and her eyes were sparkling, as she listened to some anecdote he was telling. Roderick began to feel kind of lonesome. If there was going to be anyone “shot full of holes” because of attentions to the fair Miss Barbara, he was evidently not the man. He had said to Grant Jones that any association of his name with hers was “rank foolishness,” and humbly felt now the absolute truthfulness of the remark. He began to look around for Grant—he felt he was no ladies’ man, that he was out of his element in such a gathering. There were many strange faces; he knew only a few of those present.

But his roving glance again lighted and lingered on Gail Holden. Yes, she was beautiful, indeed, both in features and in figure. Tall, willowy, stately, obviously an athlete, with a North of Ireland suggestion in her dark fluffy hair and sapphire blue eyes and pink-rose cheeks. He had seen her riding the range, a study in brown serge with a big sombrero on her head, and he saw her now in the daintiest of evening costumes, a deep collar of old lace around her fair rounded neck, a few sprigs of lily of the valley in her corsage, a filigree silver buckle at the belt that embraced her lissom form. And as he gazed on this beauty of the hills, this splendid type of womanhood, there came back to him in memory the wistful little face—yes, by comparison the somewhat worn and faded face—of the “college widow” to whom his troth was plighted, for whom he had been fighting and was fighting now the battle of life, the prize of true love he was going to take back proudly to Uncle Allen Miller along with the fortune he was to win with his own brain and hands.

“By gad, it’s more than three weeks since Stella wrote to me,” he said to himself, angrily. Somehow he was glad to feel angry—relieved in mind to find even a meagre pitiful excuse for the disloyal comparison that had forced itself upon his mind.

But at this moment the music struck up, there was a general movement, and he found himself next to Dorothy Shields. Whitley had already sailed away with Miss Holden.

“Where is Grant?” asked Roderick.

“Not yet arrived,” replied Dorothy. “He warned me that he would be late.”

“Then perhaps I may have the privilege of the first waltz, as his best friend.”

“Or for your own sake,” she laughed, as she placed her hand on his shoulder.

Soon they were in the mazy whirl. When the dance was ended Dorothy, taking his arm, indicated that she wished him to meet some people in another part of the room. After one or two introductions to young ladies, she turned to a rather heavy set, affable-looking gentleman and said: “Mr. Warfield, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Carlisle—Mr. Carlisle, Mr. Warfield.”

The men shook hands and looked into each other’s eyes. Roderick remembered this was the attorney of the smelting plant, and Carlisle remembered this was the young gentleman of whom the Shields sisters had so often spoken in complimentary terms. W. Henry Carlisle was a man perhaps forty years old. He was not only learned in the law, but one could not talk with him long without knowing he was purposeful and determined and in any sort of a contest worthy of his foeman’s steel.

Later Roderick danced with Barbara, and when he had handed her over to the next claimant on her card was again accosted by Ben Bragdon. He had liked the young attorney from the first, and together they retired for a cigarette in the smoking room.

“I saw you were introduced to that fellow Carlisle,” began Bragdon.

“Yes,” replied Roderick, smiling, for he already knew of the professional feud between the two men.

“Well, let me say something to you,” Bragdon continued. “You look to me like a man that is worth while, and I take the opportunity of telling you to let him alone. Carlisle is no good. Outside of law business and the law courts I would not speak to him if he were the last man on earth.”

“Why,” said Roderick, “you are pronounced in your views to say the least.”

Bragdon turned to Roderick and for a moment was silent. Then he asked: “What are you, a Republican or a Democrat?”

“Why, I am a Republican.”

“Shake,” said Bragdon, and they clasped hands without Roderick hardly understanding why. “Let me tell you something else,” Bragdon went on. “Carlisle claims to be a Republican but I believe he is a Democrat. He don’t look like a Republican to me. He looks like a regular secessionist Democrat and there is going to be a contest this fall for the nomination for state senator. W B. Grady and the whole smelting outfit are going to back this man Carlisle and I am going to beat him. And say—old man—” he smiled at Roderick when he said this and slapped him on the shoulder familiarly—“I want you on my side.”

“Well,” said Roderick, half embarrassed and hesitatingly, “I guess I am getting into politics pretty lively among other things. I don’t see at this moment why I should not be on your side.”

“Well, come and see me at my office over at Encampment and we will talk this matter over.” And so it was agreed.

Just then they heard singing, so they threw their cigarettes away and went back to the ballroom. A quartet of voices accompanied on the piano by Gail Holden were giving a selection from the Bohemian Girl. Whitley Adams was hovering near Miss Holden, and insisted on turning the music At the close of the number Whitley requested that Mr. Warfield should sing. Everyone joined in the invitation; it was a surprise to his western friends that he was musical. Reluctantly Roderick complied, and proving himself possessed of a splendid baritone voice, delighted everyone by singing “Forgotten” and one or two other old-time melodies. Among many others, Dorothy, Barbara, and Grant Jones, who had now put in an appearance, overwhelmed him with congratulations. Gail Holden, too, who had been his accompanist, quietly but none the less warmly, complimented him.

Then Gail herself was prevailed upon to sing. As she resumed her seat at the piano, she glanced at Roderick.

“Do you know ‘The Rosary’.” she asked in a low voice unheard by the others.

“One of my favorites,” he answered.

“Then will you help me with a second?” she added, as she spread open the sheet of music.

“I’ll be honored,” he responded, taking his place by her side.

Her rich contralto voice swelled forth like the sweeping fullness of a distant church organ, and Roderick softly and sweetly blended his tones with hers. Under the player’s magic touch the piano with its deep resonant chords added to the perfect harmony of the two voices. The interpretation was wonderful; the listeners were spellbound, and there followed an interval of tense stillness after the last whispered notes had died away.

As Gail rose and stood before him, she looked into Roderick’s eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, she was enveloped in the mystery of song, carried away by music’s subtle power. Roderick too was exalted.

“Superb,” he murmured ecstatically.

“Thanks to you,” she replied in a low voice and with a little bow.

Then the buzz of congratulations was all around them. During that brief moment, even in the crowded ballroom they had been alone—soul had spoken to soul. But now the tension was relaxed. Gail was laughing merrily. Whitley Adams was punching Roderick in the ribs.

“Say, old man, that’s taking another mean advantage.”

“What do you mean?” asked Roderick, recovering his composure.

“Singing duets like that isn’t toeing the line. The start was to be a fair one, but you’re laps ahead already.” Whitley was looking with comical dolefulness in the direction of Gail Holden.

“Oh, I catch your drift,” laughed Roderick. “Well, you brought the trouble on yourself, my boy. It was you who gave me away by declaring I could sing.”

“Which shows the folly of paying a false compliment,” retorted Whitley. “However, I’m going to get another dance anyhow.”

He made a step toward Gail, but Roderick laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

“Not just yet; the next is mine.” And with audacity that amazed himself Roderick advanced to Gail, bowed, and offered his arm. The soft strains of a dreamy waltz had just begun.

Without a word she accepted his invitation, and together they floated away among the maze of dancers.

“Well, that’s going some,” murmured Whitley, as he glanced around in quest of consolation. Dorothy Shields appeared to be monopolized by Grant Jones, but the two lawyers, Eragdon and Carlisle, were glowering at each other, as if in defiance as to which should carry off Barbara. So Whitley solved the problem by sailing in and appropriating her for himself. He was happy, she seemed pleased, and the rivals, turning away from each other, had the cold consolation that neither had profited by the other’s momentary hesitation.

After the first few rounds Roderick opened a conversation with his partner. He felicitated her upon her playing and singing. She thanked him and said: “Most heartily can I return the compliment.” He bowed his acknowledgment.

“You must come to Conchshell ranch and call on my father. He will be glad to meet you—has been an invalid all the winter, but I’m thankful he is better now.”

“I’ll be honored and delighted to make his acquaintance,” replied Roderick.

“Then perhaps we can have some more singing together,” she went on.

“Which will be a great pleasure to me,” he interjected fervently.

“And to me,” she said, smiling.

Whether listening or speaking there was something infinitely charming about Gail Holden. When conversing her beautiful teeth reminded one of a cupid’s mouth full of pearls.

“It has been some time,” explained Roderick, “since I was over your way.”

For a moment their eyes met and she mischievously replied;

“Oh, yes. Next time, I’ll not only sing for you, but if you wish I will teach you how to throw the lariat.”

“I don’t presume,” replied Roderick banteringly, “you will guarantee what I might catch even if I turned out to be an expert?”

“That,” Gail quickly rejoined, “rests entirely with your own cleverness.”

Just then it was announced from the dining room that the tables with the evening collation were spread, and as Roderick was about to offer his arm to Miss Holden, Barbara came hurriedly up, flushed and saying: “Oh, Gail, here is Mr. Carlisle who wants to take you to supper. And Mr. Warfield, you are to escort me.” She smiled triumphantly up into his face as she took his arm.

As they walked away together and Barbara was vivaciously talking to him, he wondered what it all meant Everybody seemed to be playing at cross purposes. Again he thought of the letter of warning pushed under Grant Jones’ door and mentally speculated how it would all end.