The Ramblin’ Kid spent the morning at the circular corral.  He was studying the moods and working to win the confidence of the Gold Dust maverick.  He was watching her and thinking always a little ahead of the thought that was in the mind of the mare.  His love for a horse and understanding of the wonderfully intelligent animals was as natural as were the brown eyes, the soft low voice, the gentle but strong touch, by which it was expressed.  He wooed the outlaw filly thoughtfully, carefully, as a lover courts a sweetheart.  The beautiful creature reminded him of Carolyn June.  “They was made for each other!” he repeated softly as he worked with the mare.  From the corral he could see the road across the river where Skinny and the girl had gone.  Often he turned his eyes in that direction.

He was fingering the garter in his pocket and looking toward the river when Carolyn June appeared on the ridge as she returned alone to the ranch.  He stood and watched her.  The ugly words she had spoken at the gate came into his mind and a bitter smile curled his lips.  Still he watched the girl, expecting Skinny would ride into view.  She turned down the ridge toward the upper ford.

“That’s funny,” he thought, “wonder where Skinny’s at?” Then it flashed through his mind that something must be wrong for the girl was riding alone.  “Hell!” he exclaimed aloud, “she’s by herself an’ headin’ straight for th’ upper ford!” Only an instant he paused.  “Jack!” he cried sharply, running to the corral gate and swinging it partly open.  “Come—­quick!”

The roan stallion started at a trot toward the gate, then, trained to obey instantly the word of the master he loved better than life, leaped nimbly through the opening.  Slamming and fastening the gate the Ramblin’ Kid ran to the shed, the broncho at his side.  He threw the blanket and saddle on the little roan, cinched quickly but carefully the double gear, slipped the bit into the waiting mouth of the horse and without stopping to put on his chaps sprang on Captain Jack’s back and whirled him in a dead run around the corner of the shed and down the lane toward the north.  At the pasture corral below the barn he guided the broncho close to the fence and scarcely checking him leaned over and lifted a rope, coiled and hung on a post near the gate, from its place—­the one Chuck that morning had left because of the flaw.

“God!” he groaned, “—­an’ a bad rope!”

He glanced toward the ridge across the river.  Carolyn June had disappeared down the trail that led to the upper ford.

“Go, Little Man, go—­for th’ love of God, go!” the Ramblin’ Kid whispered as he leaned forward over the neck of the horse.  Captain Jack answered the agonized appeal as he would never have responded to the cruel cut of spurs and leaped ahead in a desperate race to beat Old Blue and his precious burden to the greedy sands of the Cimarron.

As he rode, the Ramblin’ Kid slipped his hand around the coils of the rope till his fingers found the broken strands that told of the weakness that caused Chuck to leave it behind that morning.  Bending over it, while his horse ran, he worked frantically to weave a rawhide saddle string into the fiber and so strengthen the dangerous spot.