“What’s the matter now?” she inquired.

“Wal, Gene has rustled off into the mountains again.”

“Again?  I did not know he had gone.  I gave him money for that band of guerrillas.  Perhaps he went to take it to them.”

“No.  He took that a day or so after he fetched you back home.  Then in about a week he went a second time.  An’ he packed some stuff with him.  Now he’s sneaked off, an’ Nels, who was down to the lower trail, saw him meet somebody that looked like Padre Marcos.  Wal, I went down to the church, and, sure enough, Padre Marcos is gone.  What do you think of that, Miss Majesty?”

“Maybe Stewart is getting religious,” laughed Madeline.  You told me so once.

Stillwell puffed and wiped his red face.

“If you’d heerd him cuss Monty this mawnin’ you’d never guess it was religion.  Monty an’ Nels hev been givin’ Gene a lot of trouble lately.  They’re both sore an’ in fightin’ mood ever since Don Carlos hed you kidnapped.  Sure they’re goin’ to break soon, an’ then we’ll hev a couple of wild Texas steers ridin’ the range.  I’ve a heap to worry me.”

“Let Stewart take his mysterious trips into the mountains.  Here, Stillwell, I have news for you that may give you reason for worry.  I have letters from home.  And my sister, with a party of friends, is coming out to visit me.  They are society folk, and one of them is an English lord.”

“Wal, Miss Majesty, I reckon we’ll all be glad to see them,” said Stillwell.  “Onless they pack you off back East.”

“That isn’t likely,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully.  “I must go back some time, though.  Well, let me read you a few extracts from my mail.”

Madeline took up her sister’s letter with a strange sensation of how easily sight of a crested monogram and scent of delicately perfumed paper could recall the brilliant life she had given up.  She scanned the pages of beautiful handwriting.  Helen’s letter was in turn gay and brilliant and lazy, just as she was herself; but Madeline detected more of curiosity in it than of real longing to see the sister and brother in the Far West.  Much of what Helen wrote was enthusiastic anticipation of the fun she expected to have with bashful cowboys.  Helen seldom wrote letters, and she never read anything, not even popular novels of the day.  She was as absolutely ignorant of the West as the Englishman, who, she said, expected to hunt buffalo and fight Indians.  Moreover, there was a satiric note in the letter that Madeline did not like, and which roused her spirit.  Manifestly, Helen was reveling in the prospect of new sensation.

When she finished reading aloud a few paragraphs the old cattleman snorted and his face grew redder.

“Did your sister write that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Wal, I—­I beg pawdin, Miss Majesty.  But it doesn’t seem like you.  Does she think we’re a lot of wild men from Borneo?”