One of Bronson's horses raised his head and nickered. "Chinook is saying 'Adios,' too. Isn't the air good? And we're right on top of the world.

There is Jason, and there is St. Johns, and 'way over there ought to be the railroad, but I can't see it."

Bronson smiled down at her.

She reached up and pinched his cheek. "Let's stay here forever, daddy."

"We'll see how my girl is by September. And next year, if you want to come back--"

"Come back! Why, I don't want to go away--ever!"

"But the snow, Peter Pan."

"I forgot that. We'd be frozen in tight, shouldn't we?"

"I'm afraid we should. Shall we look at the mail? Then I'll have to go to work."

"Mr. Adams thinks quite a lot of his horses, doesn't he?" she queried.

"He has to. He depends on them, and they depend on him. He has to take good care of them."

"I shouldn't like it a bit if I thought he took care of them just because he had to."

"Oh, Adams is all right, Peter. I have noticed one or two things about him."

"Well, I have noticed that he has a tremendous appet.i.te," laughed Dorothy.

"And you're going to have, before we leave here, Peter Pan."

"Then you'd better hurry and get that story written. I want a new saddle and, oh, lots of things!"

Bronson patted her hand as she walked with him to the cabin. He sat down to his typewriter, and she came out with a book.

She glanced up occasionally to watch the ponies grazing on the mesa. She was deeply absorbed in her story when some one called to her. She jumped up, dropping her book.

Bud Shoop was sitting his horse a few paces away, smiling. He had ridden up quietly to surprise her.

"A right lovely mornin', Miss Bronson. I reckon your daddy is busy."

"Here I am," said Bronson, striding out and shaking hands with the supervisor. "Won't you come in?"

"About that lease," said Shoop, dismounting. "If you got time to talk business."

"Most certainly. Dorothy will excuse us."

"Is Adams gone?"

"He left this morning."

"Uh-uh. Here, Bondsman, quit botherin' the young lady."

"He isn't bothering. I know what he wants." And she ran to the kitchen.

Shoop's face grew grave. "I didn't want to scare the little lady, Bronson, but Lorry's father--Jim Waring--has been shot up bad over to Criswell. He went in after that Brewster outfit that killed Pat. I reckon he got 'em--but I ain't heard."

"Adams's father!"

"Yes, Jim Waring. Here comes the little missy. I'll tell you later. Now Bondsman is sure happy."

And Bud forced a smile as Dorothy gave the dog a pan of something that looked suspiciously like bones and shreds of turkey meat.

A little later Bud found excuse to call Bronson aside to show him a good place to fence-in the corral. Dorothy was playing with Bondsman.

"Jim's been shot up bad. I was goin' to tell you that Annie Adams, over to Stacey, is his wife. She left him when they was livin' down in Mexico. Lorry is their boy. Now, Jim is as straight as a ruler; I don't know just why she left him. But let that rest. I got a telegram from the marshal of Criswell. Reads like Jim was livin', but livin' mighty clost to the edge. Now, if I was to send word to Lorry he'd just nacherally buckle on a gun and go after them Brewster boys, if they's any of 'em left. He might listen to me if I could talk to him. Writin' is no good.

And I ain't rigged up to follow him across the ridge. It's bad country over there. I reckon I better leave word with you. If he gets word of the shootin' while he's out there, he'll just up and cut across the hills to Criswell a-smokin'. But if he gets this far back he's like to come through Jason--and I can cool him down, mebby."

"He ought to know; if his father is--"

"That's just it. But I'm thinkin' of the boy. Jim Waring's lived a big chunk of his life. But they ain't no use of the kid gettin' shot up. It figures fifty that I ought to get word to him, and fifty that I ought to keep him out of trouble--"

"I didn't know he was that kind of a chap: that is, that he would go out after those men--"

"He's Jim Waring's boy," said Bud.

"It's too bad. I heard of that other killing."

"Yes. And I've a darned good mind to fly over to Criswell myself. I knowed Pat better than I did Jim. But I can't ride like I used to.

But"--and the supervisor sighed heavily--"I reckon I'll go just the same."

"I'll give your message to Adams, Mr. Shoop."

"All right. And tell him I want to see him. How's the little lady these days?"

"She seems to be much stronger, and she is in love with the hills and canons."

"I'm right glad of that. Kind of wish I was up here myself. Why, already they're houndin' me down there to go into politics. I guess they want to get me out of this job, 'cause I can't hear crooked money jingle. My hands feels sticky ever' time I think of politics. And even if a fella's hands ain't sticky--politics money is. Why, it's like to stick to his feet if he ain't right careful where he walks!"

"I wish you would stay to dinner, Mr. Shoop."

"So I'll set and talk my fool notions--and you with a writin' machine handy? Thanks, but I reckon I'll light a shuck for Jason. See my piano?"

"Yes, indeed. Dorothy was trying it a few nights ago."

"Then she can play. Missy," and he called to Dorothy, who was having an extravagant romp with Bondsman, "could you play a tune for your Uncle Bud?"

"Of course." And she came to them.

They walked to the cabin. Bondsman did not follow. He had had a hard play, and was willing to rest.

Dorothy drew up the piano stool and touched the keys. Bud sank into his big chair. Bronson stood in the doorway. By some happy chance Dorothy played Bud's beloved "Annie Laurie."