“I’m sure not going to have you think—­” He began passionately, but he broke off, and a slow, dull crimson blotted over the healthy red-brown of his neck and cheeks.

“What you do or think, Stewart, is no concern of mine.”

“Miss—­Miss Hammond!  You don’t believe—­” faltered Stewart.

The crimson receded from his face, leaving it pale.  His eyes were appealing.  They had a kind of timid look that struck Madeline even in her anger.  There was something boyish about him then.  He took a step forward and reached out with his hand open-palmed in a gesture that was humble, yet held a certain dignity.

“But listen.  Never mind now what you—­you think about me.  There’s a good reason—­”

“I have no wish to hear your reason.”

“But you ought to,” he persisted.

“Sir!”

Stewart underwent another swift change.  He started violently.  A dark tide shaded his face and a glitter leaped to his eyes.  He took two long strides—­loomed over her.

“I’m not thinking about myself,” he thundered.  “Will you listen?”

“No,” she replied; and there was freezing hauteur in her voice.  With a slight gesture of dismissal, unmistakable in its finality, she turned her back upon him.  Then she joined her guests.

Stewart stood perfectly motionless.  Then slowly he began to lift his right hand in which he held his sombrero.  He swept it up and up high over his head.  His tall form towered.  With fierce suddenness he flung his sombrero down.  He leaped at his black horse and dragged him to where his saddle lay.  With one pitch he tossed the saddle upon the horse’s back.  His strong hands flashed at girths and straps.  Every action was swift, decisive, fierce.  Bounding for his bridle, which hung over a bush, he ran against a cowboy who awkwardly tried to avoid the onslaught.

“Get out of my way!” he yelled.

Then with the same savage haste he adjusted the bridle on his horse.

“Mebbe you better hold on a minnit, Gene, ole feller,” said Monty Price.

“Monty, do you want me to brain you?” said Stewart, with the short, hard ring in his voice.

“Now, considerin’ the high class of my brains, I oughter be real careful to keep ’em,” replied Monty.  “You can betcher life, Gene, I ain’t goin’ to git in front of you.  But I jest says—­ Listen!”

Stewart raised his dark face.  Everybody listened.  And everybody heard the rapid beat of a horse’s hoofs.  The sun had set, but the park was light.  Nels appeared down the trail, and his horse was running.  In another moment he was in the circle, pulling his bay back to a sliding halt.  He leaped off abreast of Stewart.

Madeline saw and felt a difference in Nels’s presence.

“What’s up, Gene?” he queried, sharply.

“I’m leaving camp,” replied Stewart, thickly.  His black horse began to stamp as Stewart grasped bridle and mane and kicked the stirrup round.