"I hope Isita comes early," said Harry on the morning of the Fourth as she dried the breakfast dishes. "The nearer dinner time it gets the more things there are to be done at once."

"I've seen you turn out pretty good feed all by yourself, when a bunch of people have come in unexpectedly," said Rob, who, in honor of the holiday, was dawdling about for fully ten minutes instead of hurrying back to the field. "Those surveyors, now, that lost their way and stayed overnight. Pretty good grub, I say, was what you gave them."

"This is a different matter," said Harry, trying not to show her pleasure at Rob's praise. "This is a dinner party, you no savvy?"

"I see. In other words, you want the grub fit to eat off that hundred-and-sixty-l'even-piece semiporcelain, rose-sprigged, twelve-dollar-ninety-cents et cetery, et cetery, dinner set that we bought out of the mail-order catalogue,—how long ago?—and that's been settin' in the cupboard ever since."

Rob dodged the flapping dishcloth with which Harry chased him outdoors. "All right!" he called back. "I'm going to tell 'em about that first pie you tried to make!"

"You'll be sorry if you do," she warned him.

She was still smiling at the remembrance of those first days in the new country when she saw the calico-clad figure of Isita coming along the ditch bank.

"It's awfully good of you to help me out to-day!" Harry exclaimed as the girl came up the path. "I couldn't possibly have done it all alone."

"I wanted to come," Isita answered quickly.

Something unfamiliar in her voice made Harry look closer at her. Ordinarily Isita's color was a clear, pale olive. Now her cheeks were flushed, her eyes heavy, and she breathed quickly.

"I don't believe you're well!" Harry exclaimed.

"Sure, I'm well. I hurried up here too fast, that's all," Isita insisted, and asked what work she should do first.

She was evidently eager to do her very best, and after a little Harry felt encouraged to bring out the flowered lawn she had wanted to give Isita. She brought it from her room where it had been lying, freshly ironed.

"See here," she said. "Wouldn't you like to put this on? It's too small for me, and yet it's so pretty I can't bear to throw it away. It will be nice and cool, too, this hot day."

Without a word the other girl took the dress; but, though her lips were dumb, she looked up at Harry, and over her quiet face came an expression so vivid, so glowing, that Harry felt as if a dull-covered book had been unexpectedly flashed open at a splendid picture. The book was instantly closed again, but that one glimpse satisfied her. She felt as happy as a child dressing a new doll as she slipped the dress over Isita's thin shoulders, buttoned it and then stood off to admire the result. Isita dropped her eyelids shyly and smoothed the bright lawn with caressing fingers.

"Now, if you'll shell the peas," Harry went on as if nothing unusual had happened, "I'll freeze the ice cream. Here; slip on this big apron. You want to look fresh when the company arrives."

She ran down cellar, where the cream was waiting, together with a tub of ice that Rob had cracked for her; but she had scarcely begun to turn the freezer when Isita called:

"There's something that looks like comp'ny coming up the road!"

"Not already!" groaned Harry, and rushed up to look.

A mile away a cloud of dust marched forward round a slow-moving light wagon, and Harry caught glimpses now and then of white-frocked children on the back seat.

"It's the Robinsons," said Harry with conviction. "They live nearest. Well, shell peas for all you're worth, and I'll go twirl the freezer. Be sure to call me when they get to the gate."

And down she dived into the cellar again.

"They're just pullin' up to the gate," came the summons from Isita at last, "and it is the Robinsons. There's a raft of young ones."

As Harry ran down the path to meet them, Mrs. Robinson, crimpy-headed, tall, angular, as vividly alive as ever, waved her hand in greeting.

"Bully for you, girlie!" she cried. "You've got the flag up. As I says to pa as we come round the butte," she went on without a pause as she clambered from the wagon, shook her skirts, pushed back her hat and fanned her face with her handkerchief, "and seen that flag floatin' up top the pole there, I says, 'Well, there's two real Americans in this country, anyhow.' For a hull lot of us Fourth of July has got to mean a big feed and sleepin' it off."

"Mother put the flag in my trunk when I was leaving home. She said we'd need it to remind us of—well, days like this, when we were too busy to observe them any other way. I'm afraid if she hadn't we'd have had the big dinner and nothing else."

"That's something to have, these hard times, lemme tell you," put in Pa Robinson from the rear of the wagon, where he was unloading small Robinsons. "Too late to look for rain now, and there's no more snow water to come down into the river. Looks to me like we'd all be glad to get red beans and side meat next winter."

"Say! That's true, too," his wife chimed in. "What's more, pretty near every truck patch on the flat got froze down that last freeze. I tell you, I'm glad us folks live up here on the bench; even if they do laugh at us for campin' on the rim rock."

"It don't look like you had any June freeze up here," said Robinson, turning to Rob, who had come up from the barn. "I ain't seen no finer stand of alfalfa on the prairie."

"It would be a long sight better if the cattle that are running loose in these hills hadn't broken in so often," Rob told him.

"Them scabby critters!" Robinson exclaimed in deep disgust. "I tell you right now, there's got to be something done to get rid of them scrubs."

"Well, that's certainly so! We've come to the end of our patience."

"It's time!" Mrs. Robinson exclaimed. "I'm to the end of mine long ago, watchin' you men folks pomper up yours and string it out to the last breath before you'll git a move on."

"Oh, we know you," said Pa Robinson. "You'd be for pullin' the fuse out by the tail just as she's goin' off."

"Let them have it out alone," Harry begged Mrs. Robinson. "I want you to come and look at my wool. I've washed and picked it, but it doesn't begin to look so nice as yours."

When the older woman had felt the creamy strands that Harry had kept tied in a sheet, she said, "It ain't the same sort of fleece. Mine's that long, wavy Merino, and this is Southdown. Goin' to card and quilt it yourself?"

"I did want to. I wanted to have a quilting bee this fall and have my quilts made up in the old-time patterns—sun flower or morning star. Like our grandmothers.' You remember, don't you?"

"Do I! Ain't I seen 'em back home on the spare-room bed? But it seems we ain't got the time to do that sort of work out here."

"Let's make the time, then. Start the fashion, you and I."

"That's right, girlie. All we need's some one to give us a shove up the right trail and we'll keep to it. Like you startin' the girls last winter in that camp-wagon—no, camp-fire club at school. Vashti, she's a different young one since—quit thinkin' about her hair ribbons and how to git to the dances downtown every week and took to washin' the young one's faces and readin' the receipt book instead. And that reminds me. She sent you up a cake she made herself; red, white and blue frosting—and a jar of jell. I'll run git 'em out the hack before the dogs smell 'em." At the door she stopped to call back, "Here comes Con Gardner and Lance Fitch! Oh, yes! And I forgot to tell you"—her voice fell—"Zip Miller won't be over. He's got the spotted fever."

"Oh, how dreadful!" Harry turned from a survey of the cooking with distress in her eyes. The spotted fever was the perpetual menace in the country where sheep grazed. The worst of it was that no one knew the exact cause or cure; the sufferers died or recovered without apparent reason.

"The doctor's went over every day," Mrs. Robinson went on, then broke off with, "I'll tell you later; you ain't got time now."

Harry slipped off her apron to go to meet the latest guests. "Keep up the fire, won't you?" she said to Isita in passing. "That chicken is cooking just right."

"Don't you worry, Miss Harry," was her prompt answer. "I'll watch everything as careful as can be."

All day, while engaged in the exciting task of having everything ready at once, in seeing that Mrs. Mosher's baby had its warm milk and nap at the proper time, in managing so that the dinner should fall between two loads of hay, Harry found Isita always on hand, alert and responsive. The younger girl was deeply interested in Harry's way of setting the table: with eyes full of wonder she gazed at the white tablecloth spread symmetrically, the bowl of nasturtiums in the center, the fresh rolls laid inside the neatly folded napkins. When all was complete and they stood off to take a final view of the table, Isita said quietly, "That's the way it looks for Thanksgiving, ain't it? Ma's told me about that big time."

Harry looked at the girl with pity in her eyes. Never to have known Thanksgiving except through hearing about it!

"You'll go back some day," Harry said. "Every one must eat at least one Thanksgiving dinner with grandmother and grandfather."

She stopped, for Isita's eyes were fixed upon her with a bright, far-off gaze, and the girl was breathing quickly through her parted scarlet lips.

"She can't be well," Harry thought again but before she could speak, Rob came in to ask how soon dinner would be ready.

"It's ten minutes of one now," he said, as his eyes roved eagerly over the table, so cool in the shade of the trees. "Is there time to put up another load before we eat?"

"That depends on how fast you work," she reminded him. "It won't take up more than ten minutes to dish up."

Rob promptly disappeared toward the corral and they heard him bawling, "Come on, all you workin' stiffs! She's set!"

At last they were all gathered round the table, and Harry's reward had begun to come in the form of murmurs of approval from the men, and in more outspoken compliments from the women.

"Why on earth didn't you send some of these things to the county fair last fall?" Sally Gardner demanded wonderingly as she tasted one dish after another.

"Yes! You'd have some of them year-in and year-out blue-ribbon grabbers askin' you for receipts, all right," said Mrs. Robinson as she reached for a third helping of salad.

"That's right," echoed Lance Fitch. "'Tain't every lady can teach school 'n' cook good, too. You could be makin' your sixty a month right along in summer, cookin' for the hay and harvester crews."

"Sure!" exclaimed Pa Robinson. "What do ye mean, Holliday, by keepin' this sister of yours hid out in these here hills all summer?"

"How do you expect me to ranch without her to ride the fences for me, I'd like to know?"

"Better look out, or some fancy cow puncher'll ride off with her for keeps. Then whar'll you be?"

"He kin do like Kit McCarty done," Lance said; "write to a mail-order house and tell 'em, they'd send him everything to fit up house with. Couldn't they send him a wife to keep his house along with the rest of it?"

"Nothing stirring," declared Rob. "She might be like this company dinner set that spends most of the year sitting up in the closet, looking pretty and doing nothing else."

"If he ain't as mean as a Scotchman," began Mrs. Robinson, when a voice from outside made them all jump.

"What's that about Scotchmen?" it asked. "My mother was Scotch, and I'm thinkin' of goin' into sheep myself along with all the other canny Scotch laddies in Idyho, if the cowmen get any meaner."

It was Chris Garnett. He had ridden up unheard and was peering at the company through the screen of branches.

"Sorry to be late," he said apologetically, when he was seated and the women were filling his plate. "Some folks'll tell you, 'Them forest rangers don't have a thing to do but ride to keep from gettin' too fat, and go fishin'.' Fact is, there's a movin-picture mix-up on the reserve most of the time. Right now it's these scrubs. Can't keep 'em out. There's scrappin' every day along of the men that own pastur' in the reserve and the riders for the Idyho Cattle Comp'ny and the rustlers that's tryin' to pick up a few head between times."

"It's a cinch somebody's rustling calves," Rob said. "We've lost two yearlings ourselves."

"I'll rustle a few myself pretty soon," said Lance Fitch, scowling at the mound of potpie and mashed potatoes submerged in a lava stream of gravy that he was demolishing. "If these outside capitalists are going to shove their starved critters in and steal our range, I'll wise 'em some."

"Now you're talkin'," Pete Mosher broke in eagerly. "Them rich fellers went into cattle just for a notion; becus beef's goin' up. Us ranchers live in these hills, and our livin' depends on the grazin' in 'em. Who's got the best right to it—them capitalists, or us? Hey?"

As he asked it, his sunburned blue eyes darted from one guest to another. Rob was the first to answer him. "There's one way to get rid of these scrubs—put the herd law through."

"Herd law!" And now every one talked at once. "In a free range country? Where'd we be ourselves?" "The stockmen'd fight it while the world stands." "You'd have the whole of Camas Prairie goin' to law."

"Wait a second," Rob broke in; "let me explain. There's not a section of land along the north side of these hills that isn't homesteaded, is there, at least up to where the hills get too steep for cattle to graze? And if all of us ranchers along here made an agreement not to fight one another if our cattle made trouble, but to settle it peaceably, then we could keep the range for ourselves and keep out the big fellows, Ludlum and the rest that couldn't afford to herd their stock all summer."

He talked on fast and eagerly, making mistakes and correcting himself, not saying half that he wanted to; but he put the idea before them convincingly, and before the discussion ended they had decided to take action toward getting a herd law through for that district.

While the argument was at its hottest, Mrs. Robinson leaned over and whispered hoarsely: "Say, girlie, if you say so, I'll go pick me some of them peas you said I could have. The sun's wearin' west, and fust you know it'll be milkin' time and us havin' to hit the trail."

"Go ahead," urged Harry. "I'll go see where Isita is and start the dishes."

"Is that the Portugee girl you're talking about?" asked Sally Gardner. "I saw her go off across the meadow yonder while you and Mrs. Robinson were fetchin' on the ice cream."

Isita had, in fact, slipped away home without a word to any one.

"Never mind, girlie," Ma Robinson consoled her; "here's four of us women that's been broke to dishwater and the clatter of pans long enough not to shy or balk at 'em. That so, Sally Gardner? Come on, then?"

When, shortly after six o'clock, Harry, Rob and Garnett stood at the corral gate and watched the visitors out of sight, Harry laughed and sighed together.

"I've had the best time in years," she said. "I only wish we lived nearer folks, so I could give a party oftener."

"Looks like you're goin' to have some more comp'ny to-day," Garnett remarked and nodded toward the lane.

Harry turned and saw two riders coming toward the barn. "They're welcome to what there is. There's at least a chicken wing left."

"I'll see what they want," Rob said as he went to meet them.

Garnett and Harry looked after him carelessly, and then went on with their pleasant chatter. But a sudden burst of angry voices from the barn silenced them abruptly. Garnett unconsciously tautened.

"Guess I'd better step down there," he said. "Looks to me like the buckaroos I met huntin' strays. Might be I could set 'em straight."

"I might as well go, too," Harry decided. She had heard her brother say, "Prove it if you can. It's absurd on the face of it."

"Do they think we've been stealing their critters?" she asked in a low voice as they hurried forward, and she thought of the calf she had brought inside to feed. "It's more likely some one has been stealing ours. The last time we went through the herd two were missing, and that was quite a while ago."

"Don't tell them so," Garnett cautioned her; "let them do the talkin'."

At sound of their steps Rob turned to them. "See here, Harry. These fellows say you've shot one of their cows and run in her calf. They say they've had positive information from a fellow who saw you shoot."

Harry turned white. For a second there was no sound except the creaking of a saddle as the ponies breathed. The two vaqueros, one a half-breed Indian, the other the pink-faced man whom Harry had met on the range, stared at her fixedly. Garnett apparently kept his eyes fixed on space, but he missed nothing.

Fear had not blanched Harry's cheeks. Anger had, and the next instant they flushed scarlet. "Who saw me shooting?" she cried. "I haven't had a gun in my hands this summer except to warn poachers off our land."

"Poachers?" the pink-faced rider echoed inquiringly.

"Yes; hunters who come inside our fence to steal sage hen and grouse. They won't stop merely for being asked. You have to fire a rifle over their heads to frighten them. Then they understand that 'no-shooting' signs mean what they say."

Her voice trembled a little, but she held her head defiantly and faced the "cow-puncher" with steady eyes. He merely shook his head and smiled incredulously.

"You shore are brave, ma'am. Tother day you was doggin' off Ludlum's stock like you owned the hull range, and you told me you'd shoot every one of 'em now—that is, if it suited ye; and now you're gunnin' for white men becus they're pickin' up a few birds what ain't yours nohow. I guess you wouldn't find no trouble pluggin' a cow critter if you thought you could rustle her calf."

"Is that so, Harry?" Rob asked quietly. "Did you threaten to shoot Ludlum's stock?"

"I did. After what this rider threatened," she admitted, and related the whole occurrence. "As for bringing in a deserted calf," she added. "I'm perfectly willing to acknowledge I did it. I wasn't going to leave it to starve, no matter whose it was. When you take it back, you might ask Ludlum to return our steers that his scrubs have taken off with them; but when it comes to shooting a cow, his or anybody's, well, I didn't. That's all."

"Looks like you'd have to hunt your critters further on." Garnett's words showed his relief, and Rob's sudden smile told how great his suspense had been; but that relief lasted only a moment.

"I'd like to believe you, ma'am," the "cow-puncher" said brusquely, "but we done seen the cow with our own eyes. Yes. She's layin' out yonder and her hind quarters cut off and the hide clean gone, so we can't prove nothin' by the brand; but I know her turned-down horns and her slit ears. She's got a bullet hole through her neck, too, sure's I'm livin'."

"Say!" Garnett broke in, and his voice was short and hard. "Who's the scissorbill you fellows been listenin' to? Why didn't you bring him along to prove all this?"

"Oh, it's easy enough to fetch him when we want him," Pink-face retorted tranquilly. "You know him, all right. Portugee Joe? Just east of you? Sure."

"Joe Biane!" Harry exclaimed. "Are you going to take his word against mine? You can't know him very well."

"'Tain't a case of knowin' nor trustin'," Pink-face answered. "Not chiefly, is what I mean to say. We ast Joe had he seen any cow critters off by theirselves, alive or dead, that is chiefly; and he said as how he seen you shoot this here one. You was shootin' at some bird hunters inside your fence, and he, that is, Joe now, he was footin' it acrost the scab land and seen you plunk that there cow we're tollin' you about. Yes."

There was a queer silence. Then Pink-face continued: "There ain't no use gassin' here. We got a warrant for the lady's arrest and we might's well be movin' to town is what I would say chiefly. Portugee Joe said he'd be there to witness for us in the morning."