Racey dismounted at the corral and approached the kitchen door.  A fresh young voice in the kitchen was singing a song to the brave accompaniment of a twanging banjo: 

  “When I was a-goin’ down the road
    With a tired team an’ a heavy load,
  I cracked my whip an’ the leader sprung,
    An’ he almost busted the wagon tongue. 
    Turkey in the straw, ha! ha! ha! 
    Turkey in—­”

The singing stopped in the middle of a line.  The banjo went silent in the middle of a bar.  Racey looked in at the kitchen door and saw, sitting on a corner of the kitchen table, a very pretty girl.  One knee was crossed over the other, in her lap was the mute banjo, and she was looking straight at him.

Racey, heartily and internally cursing himself for having neglected to shave, pulled off his hat and achieved a head-hob.

“Good morning,” said the pretty girl, putting up a slim tanned hand and tucking in behind a well-set ear a strayed lock of black hair.

“Mornin’,” said Racey, and decided then and there that he had never before seen eyes of such a deep, dark blue, or a mouth so alluringly red.

“What,” said the pretty girl, laying the banjo on the table and sliding down till her feet touched the floor, “what can I do for you?”

“Nun-nothin’,” stuttered the rattled Racey, clasping his hat to his bosom, so that he could button unseen the top button of his shirt, “except cuc-can you find Miss Dale for me.  Is she home?”

“Mother’s out.  So’s Father, I’m the only one home.”

“It’s yore sister I want, Miss Dale—­yore oldest sister.”

“You must mean Mrs. Morgan.  She lives—­”

“No, I don’t mean her.  Yore oldest sister, Miss.  Her whose hoss was taken by mistake in Farewell yesterday.”

“That was my horse.”

“Yores!  But they said it was an old lady’s hoss!  Are you shore it—­”

“Of course I’m sure.  Did you bring him back?...  Where?...  The corral?”

The girl walked swiftly to the window, took one glance at the bay horse tied to the corral gate, and returned to the table.

“Certainly that’s my horse,” she reiterated with the slightest of smiles.

Racey Dawson stared at her in horror.  Her horse!  He had actually run off with the horse of this beautiful being.  He had thereby caused inconvenience to this angel.  If he could only crawl off somewhere and pass away quietly.  At the moment, by his own valuation, any one buying him for a nickel would have been liberally overcharged.  Her horse!  “I—­I took yore hoss,” he spoke up, desperately.  “I’m Racey Dawson.”

“So you’re the man—­” she began, and stopped.

He nodded miserably, his contrite eyes on the toes of her shoes.  Small shoes they were.  Cheerfully would he have lain down right there on the floor and let her wipe those selfsame shoes upon him.  It would have been a positive pleasure.  He felt so worm-like he almost wriggled.  Slowly, oh, very slowly, he lifted his eyes to her face.