With that he bowed his head and, grumbling to himself, went into the house.  Alfred lifted the reins over the head of the horse and, leading him to Madeline, slipped the knot over her arm and placed the letter in her hand.

“Majesty, I’d accept the horse,” he said.  “Stewart is only a cowboy now, and as tough as any I’ve known.  But he comes of a good family.  He was a college man and a gentleman once.  He went to the bad out here, like so many fellows go, like I nearly did.  Then he had told me about his sister and mother.  He cared a good deal for them.  I think he has been a source of unhappiness to them.  It was mostly when he was reminded of this in some way that he’d get drunk.  I have always stuck to him, and I would do so yet if I had the chance.  You can see Bill is heartbroken about Danny Mains and Stewart.  I think he rather hoped to get good news.  There’s not much chance of them coming back now, at least not in the case of Stewart.  This giving up his horse means he’s going to join the rebel forces across the border.  What wouldn’t I give to see that cowboy break loose on a bunch of Greasers!  Oh, damn the luck!  I beg your pardon, Majesty.  But I’m upset, too.  I’m sorry about Stewart.  I liked him pretty well before he thrashed that coyote of a sheriff, Pat Hawe, and afterward I guess I liked him more.  You read the letter, sister, and accept the horse.”

In silence Madeline bent her gaze from her brother’s face to the letter: 

Friend Al,—­I’m sending my horse down to you because I’m going away and haven’t the nerve to take him where he’d get hurt or fall into strange hands.

If you think it’s all right, why, give him to your sister with my respects.  But if you don’t like the idea, Al, or if she won’t have him, then he’s for you.  I’m not forgetting your kindness to me, even if I never showed it.  And, Al, my horse has never felt a quirt or a spur, and I’d like to think you’d never hurt him.  I’m hoping your sister will take him.  She’ll be good to him, and she can afford to take care of him.  And, while I’m waiting to be plugged by a Greaser bullet, if I happen to have a picture in mind of how she’ll look upon my horse, why, man, it’s not going to make any difference to you.  She needn’t ever know it.  Between you and me, Al, don’t let her or Flo ride alone over Don Carlos’s way.  If I had time I could tell you something about that slick Greaser.  And tell your sister, if there’s ever any reason for her to run away from anybody when she’s up on that roan, just let her lean over and yell in his ear.  She’ll find herself riding the wind.  So long.

Gene Stewart.

Madeline thoughtfully folded the letter and murmured, “How he must love his horse!”

“Well, I should say so,” replied Alfred.  “Flo will tell you.  She’s the only person Gene ever let ride that horse, unless, as Bill thinks, the little Mexican girl, Bonita, rode him out of El Cajon the other night.  Well, sister mine, how about it—­will you accept the horse?”