The Flying M crowd and the Burketts had agreed on a place all to themselves in the willows along Caliente creek. The colonel said he intended to try for some plover up there. Hilda, riding with Maybelle and Fayte, watched eagerly as they neared the picnic grounds, saw that the Burketts were already there ahead of them; out of their vehicles, off their ponies, moving about a camp-fire and spreading a tablecloth.

“There’s Lefty Adams and Billy Grainger,” commented Maybelle, softly. But nobody said, “There’s Pearse Masters.”

There was no need to say it. Fayte, glancing aside at Hilda’s glowing face, might easily have been aware whose was the tall figure moving beside Mrs. Burkett across from the B Z B ambulance. Even Miss Ferguson, looking back from the buckboard and catching sight of her pupil, got some guess as to that secret happiness which was transforming her. Pearse, hurriedly placing Mrs. Burkett’s basket and coming to help Hilda down, got Colonel Marchbanks’ shoulder turned to him with a grunt; the colonel spoke afterward, low and angrily, to his wife. But what did it matter? Pearse’s look and gesture as he swung Hilda from her saddle, and they stood a moment gazing in each other’s eyes, suggested that the two of them were alone on the Staked Plain.

“Well, I declare! I thought he was going to kiss her—didn’t you?” Maybelle observed to her brother, whose only answer was a black look.

The hurry of getting the Flying M lunch spread out, of finding a place on the coals for its coffee-pot and its kettle of frijoles, covered, but did not conceal, the state of affairs between Hilda and Pearse. By the time the party was settled around the long tablecloth it was plain that the colonel and Mrs. Marchbanks had a disturbing consciousness of it. Nobody could fail to note the glances that passed between the two. Pearse sat close enough to speak unheard by the others, and Mrs. Burkett, being a woman and therefore a match-maker, looked with smiling defiance at her neighbors, as she raised an already round and hearty voice another notch or so to cover their whispering. Altogether, things began to be somewhat strained before the meal was over.

Jinnie Marchbanks, from the first, had dotted on Hilda; and took an instant liking to the new man, who had been nice to her at the Grainger dance. She sat between the two, or rather slightly in front of their dropped hands which sometimes thus found an opportunity for joining. Hilda wasn’t aware of what she ate and drank—or if she was eating or drinking at all. It didn’t even infringe on her joy that the Marchbankses, excepting always Maybelle, seemed to be trying to make an interloper of Pearse. Every one else appeared to like him. She could see he was popular and had a standing of his own. And he showed himself very openly and decidedly her special friend—her property, Maybelle would have said.

Lunch was eaten and cleared away. It was two hours later; every known game that would keep the group together had been proposed and carried on as long as the young folks would stand for it. The thin echoes of shouts and laughter came across from the farther end of the big picnic ground, where the town crowd from Juan Chico had long tables that the restaurant men supplied. It had not been noticed that the children were no longer with them till Tod and Jinnie with the Burkett youngsters came surging into their midst, announcing that they had been up the creek, and that there was a steer bogged down there.

“He’s dest a-swingin’ his horns and goin’ ‘Mrrr! Mrrr!’” sputtered the excitable Jinnie, while Tod came in grandly.

“’F I’d had a rope, I’d ’a’ snaked him out o’ that mighty quick.”

“S’pose we sa’nter up there and have a look at him?” suggested Lefty Adams, throwing away his cigarette butt and reaching around for his saddle, of which he had been making a pillow. He cinched it on the pony deliberately. “Hi, fellers, what do you say? Shall we go and pull a steer out of the mud?”

“You boys mind what you’re doing,” said Colonel Marchbanks from where he lay under a big juniper, his hands clasped behind his head, a cigar between his teeth. “Those fellows are due to go on the prod when you drag ’em out of the mud. Don’t turn any cavorting steer down the creek here on us.”

Three or four young men had hastily saddled, mounted and wheeled to follow Adams.

“All right, Colonel,” Lefty called back over his shoulder. “Us girls’ll be powerful careful. We’re kind o’ scairt o’ cow-brutes ourselves.”

Then he caught his hat from his head, slapped it down in a loud “flop” on the pony’s neck, and clattered out of sight along the trail, leading the way with a long “Yip-pee!”

Among the group that rode at his heels were both

Pearse Masters and Fayte Marchbanks. Maybelle caught Hilda’s arm and without a word dragged her in their wake.

“Now,” she whispered urgently, “now’s your time to get a word alone with him—and help me. I want to slip across to that town crowd without Pa or Ma seeing me. Won’t take me but a minute. You wait for me here by the creek, and we’ll go back together afterward. They’ll think we’ve been together all the time.”

No time to debate. The girls ran blindly up the trail beside the creek. It was the quickest way for Maybelle’s enterprise too. Rough, twisty going; breathless, they swung around a clump of scrub—and there right before them was the steer, sunk nearly to his knees in the soft mud. The young fellows sitting their ponies about him, joking over the enterprise, hadn’t gotten sight of the two girls. Maybelle pulled back a little, out of range; it was no part of her plan to be caught by her brother in what she was doing. Lefty Adams was rolling a fresh cigarette, one leg thrown over the saddle horn. He slanted a glance at the unfortunate one in the mud who was still, as Tod had said, shaking his head and grumbling, rolling bloodshot eyes.

“Huh! One of old man Hipp’s lazy H’s,” drawled Lefty in a disgusted tone.

“That’s what he is.” Fayte Marchbanks began to re-coil the rope he’d been loosening from his saddle horn.

“Old man Hipp!” sniffed Sam Cole. “Anybody that wants to, can pull a steer out of the mud for that old skeezicks!”

“Aw—we ain’t going to pull it out for Hipp,” argued Lefty. “Just going to snake the long-horn out for fun. Go to it, fellows. First one speaks has got first go. Who wants to dab a rope on him?”

On the instant Fayte Marchbanks caught sight of those light fluttering dresses on the path below. Here was a chance to show off before Hilda.

“I’ll snake him out!” he cried, sat forward in his saddle, and with a flourish his rope flew out and settled over the broad, swinging horns. Fayte was pulling in the slack, making fast and starting his pony, when Pearse Masters, glancing toward the path below, called out sharply.

“Hold on, Marchbanks! There’s some one afoot down there.” It was the first word that had passed between these two since the night of the dance, and the red surged up in Fayte’s dark face, his eyes gleamed. His answer was lost in the queer, yelping bellow of the steer as the rope grew taut. The other boys laughed. One more heave and the brute would be free.

“Hold on,” Pearse repeated. “I tell you there’s some one afoot down there on the path. Give them a chance to get out of the way!”

But with a great kicking and splattering and lashing out of gaunt, powerful legs, the steer had already hauled free from the mud, gone almost down, rolled partly over—and Fayte’s rope slipped from his horns!

“Rope him! Rope him—some of you!” Fayte yelled, coiling frantically at his own rope so that he might send it out again. But no one else was ready with a rope. The steer scrambled to his knees—to his feet; now on firm ground, free, blind with fury.

The cheer the boys sent up when Fayte made his successful cast, the shouted words between him and Pearse, had reached the picnic party back at the camp-fire and started them running up the path. They were still out of sight of what was happening as the steer, tail up, charged those unmounted figures.

“Run, girls!” yelled Fayte. “Why the devil don’t you run?”

But Hilda, dragging at Maybelle’s arm, knew why; the other girl was paralyzed with fright. She stood rigid, and Hilda could not leave her.

In the one fleeting instant Hilda saw Pearse crowd his pony against Fayte, saw his arm go over as though striking a blow. But the hand that shot out toward Fayte came away with a loaded six-shooter in it, and on the instant Pearse fired.

The shot caught the beast in full gallop; with one last plunge his nose dropped to earth; he flung a complete somersault, his kicking hoofs cutting close past Hilda’s head; then he lay still.

Pearse was off his pony and running to the girls. His cheek bled from a cut. When he reached over Fayte to jerk the pistol from its holster, they all had seen that young man turn and strike at him. A small, jagged tear was made by the glancing blow of a heavy ring, dark, Mexican gold, which Fayte always wore.

So much Hilda saw, and then the party from below came up on the run, Colonel Marchbanks ahead, Mrs. Marchbanks panting close after, catching at her husband’s arm, begging him not to get excited.

“Let go of me, Evelyn.” He shook her off. “Now you”—he faced Pearse—“haven’t you any better sense than to go dragging a steer out of the mud when these girls were here afoot—and children playing around? What the devil do you mean by it?”

Fayte Marchbanks got down from his horse, still white, but very defiant. The other boys looked to him. None of them would speak until he did. There was an awkward silence for a moment, then he said,

“Hold up. I guess we were all into this thing. Reckon you’re right. We ought to have had better sense. But it was Masters who shot the steer.”

“Did, did he?”

“Well, he saved these girls’ lives,” said Mrs. Burkett sharply. “Good thing one of you had sense enough. What were the rest of you doing?”

“Why, you see,” Lefty glanced sidewise at the colonel, “wasn’t another rope in the crowd ready for use. Feller that roped the brute had just used his’n, and the rest of us hadn’t got ours out a-tall. That’s the way it happened, Ma’am. We none of us saw the girls—unless Fayte did. He was facin’ the right way to see ’em— Did you, Fayte?” The inquiry was put with great innocence. Fayte answered it:

“You go to the devil! What difference does it make that Masters happened to be quickest on the draw? One or the other of us would have shot that steer, if he hadn’t.”

“Oh, Masters is quick on the draw,” grinned Lefty, “even when he draws from another feller’s holster—and gets a smack on the jaw for doing it.”

All the cowboys were grinning now. This thing of Pearse Masters being blamed—in any part—for Fayte’s reckless behavior, tickled their sense of humor.

“Lots of fuss about nothing,” Fayte muttered, and he scuffed negligently at the dead steer, which Jinnie and Tod were already investigating.

“All right,” Colonel Marchbanks raised his voice; he understood now where the fault lay. “If you boys want to rave around and kill cattle for fun—I suppose you’ve got the price. Evelyn—get those children out of the way here. You girls go back down the creek. We’ve had about enough picnic for one day. You can get ready to go home. Where’s Maybelle?”

“Right here. Been here all the time, Pa.” Maybelle’s arm was slipped suddenly around Hilda’s waist. She spoke innocently, but Hilda could feel her panting.

Colonel Marchbanks herded his household down the path.

“Well, let’s have our supper anyhow, before we start back,” said Mrs. Burkett, going to the baskets.

But Colonel Marchbanks decided that his folks should eat their supper at home; Miss Ferguson and Maybelle were started at the packing and getting ready, the children sent to wash their faces.

Lefty and Sam Cone had ridden in with Fayte; apparently Pearse was still up the creek at the scene of the accident. After a cautious look about her, Hilda started back that way. Out of sight of the others, she came on Tod and Jinnie lingering in the path.

“Where you going?” Tod got in front of her.

“Just up here. I’ll only be gone a minute. Don’t tell any one where I am—will you?”

“We won’t,” Tod agreed much too easily. “I won’t tell him.”

Hilda ran along the path a few steps when a saw-edged shriek from behind stopped her, turned her. There was Jinnie throwing herself bodily on her brother, pounding him fiercely, while he ducked and dodged the best he could—it was against family rules for him to hit back at Jinnie.

“Yes, he will tell!” squealed Jinnie. “Buvver Fayte’s goin’ to give him a korter-money for tellin’!” She grabbed at Tod’s hay-colored hair; he pulled free and ran. “Git him! Git him! He said he wouldn’t tell—and he’s running right now to tell Buvver Fayte— and get ’at korter-money!”

“What’s the matter, kids?” It was Pearse, leading his pony. Hilda turned to him instantly, crying out,

“Oh, Pearse—you won’t let it go like this, will you? Everybody ought to be told just how it was.”

“What’s the use?” Pearse came close and took her hand. “Fayte knows how it was. The other boys know. The colonel could find out—if he wanted to. You and I don’t care. You’ll see that Marchbanks will pay old man Hipp for his steer. That’ll show he knows whose fault it all was.”

“Yes—and Maybelle. I thought she’d say something,” said Hilda.

“Oh—here you are, Hilda,” Mrs. Marchbanks came up, Jinnie at her heels. Tod had found some one to tell, if not Fayte. “Run back, Jinnie. Get your face washed, dear. We’re going to start home in a few minutes. I want to talk to Hilda.” Pearse, lifting his hat, led his pony past them, then checked and looked back to where Mrs. Marchbanks was already pulling Hilda down beside her on a fallen log.

“I’ll see you on the way home, Hilda,” he said quietly and went on.

“Well”—Mrs. Marchbanks stared after him with an offended air—“he doesn’t seem to have any doubts about what he’ll do, does he?”

Hilda was silent. Mrs. Marchbanks looked around at her and began hastily with a speech that sounded as though it had been prepared.

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to make trouble by the way you’ve behaved with this Pearse Masters. You’re just young and thoughtless. Fayte’s got a heart of gold, and he’s perfectly devoted to you. But he’s hot-headed, and if you—”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk to me this way, Mrs. Marchbanks,” Hilda protested.

“But a beautiful, fascinating girl like you has a great responsibility, Hilda; sometimes the very salvation of one of her boy friends may depend on her.”

“Oh, please don’t!” Hilda got up; Mrs. Marchbanks got up with her, still talking urgently as they started slowly back.

“You could make anything of this boy of ours. A little wild—any high-spirited boy is—but he only needs steadying down. You be nice to him, Hilda. Be kind to him.”