Then she thought of things that were perhaps exclusively her own strange ideas.  Boyd Harvey’s white skin did not tan even in this southwestern sun and wind.  His hands were whiter than her own, and as soft.  They were really beautiful, and she remembered what care he took of them.  They were a proof that he never worked.  His frame was tall, graceful, elegant.  It did not bear evidence of ruggedness.  He had never indulged in a sport more strenuous than yachting.  He hated effort and activity.  He rode horseback very little, disliked any but moderate motoring, spent much time in Newport and Europe, never walked when he could help it, and had no ambition unless it were to pass the days pleasantly.  If he ever had any sons they would be like him, only a generation more toward the inevitable extinction of his race.

Madeline returned to camp in just the mood to make a sharp, deciding contrast.  It happened—­fatefully, perhaps—­that the first man she saw was Stewart.  He had just ridden into camp, and as she came up he explained that he had gone down to the ranch for the important mail about which she had expressed anxiety.

“Down and back in one day!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” he replied.  “It wasn’t so bad.”

“But why did you not send one of the boys, and let him make the regular two-day trip?”

“You were worried about your mail,” he answered, briefly, as he delivered it.  Then he bent to examine the fetlocks of his weary horse.

It was midsummer now, Madeline reflected and exceedingly hot and dusty on the lower trail.  Stewart had ridden down the mountain and back again in twelve hours.  Probably no horse in the outfit, except his big black or Majesty, could have stood that trip.  And his horse showed the effects of a grueling day.  He was caked with dust and lame and weary.

Stewart looked as if he had spared the horse his weight on many a mile of that rough ascent.  His boots were evidence of it.  His heavy flannel shirt, wet through with perspiration, adhered closely to his shoulders and arms, so that every ripple of muscle plainly showed.  His face was black, except round the temples and forehead, where it was bright red.  Drops of sweat, running off his blackened hands dripped to the ground.  He got up from examining the lame foot, and then threw off the saddle.  The black horse snorted and lunged for the watering-pool.  Stewart let him drink a little, then with iron arms dragged him away.  In this action the man’s lithe, powerful form impressed Madeline with a wonderful sense of muscular force.  His brawny wrist was bare; his big, strong hand, first clutching the horse’s mane, then patting his neck, had a bruised knuckle, and one finger was bound up.  That hand expressed as much gentleness and thoughtfulness for the horse as it had strength to drag him back from too much drinking at a dangerous moment.