“I—­I don’t exactly know.  It is that kind which I feel you might be.  But I do know that in the problem at hand I want your actions to be governed by reason, not passion.  Human life is not for any man to sacrifice unless in self-defense or in protecting those dependent upon him.  What Stillwell and you hinted makes me afraid of Nels and Nick Steele and Monty.  Cannot they be controlled?  I want to feel that they will not go gunning for Don Carlos’s men.  I want to avoid all violence.  And yet when my guests come I want to feel that they will be safe from danger or fright or even annoyance.  May I not rely wholly upon you, Stewart?  Just trust you to manage these obstreperous cowboys and protect my property and Alfred’s, and take care of us—­of me, until this revolution is ended?  I have never had a day’s worry since I bought the ranch.  It is not that I want to shirk my responsibilities; it is that I like being happy.  May I put so much faith in you?”

“I hope so, Miss Hammond,” replied Stewart.  It was an instant response, but none the less fraught with consciousness of responsibility.  He waited a moment, and then, as neither Stillwell nor Madeline offered further speech, he bowed and turned down the path, his long spurs clinking in the gravel.

“Wal, wal,” exclaimed Stillwell, “thet’s no little job you give him, Miss Majesty.”

“It was a woman’s cunning, Stillwell,” said Alfred.  “My sister used to be a wonder at getting her own way when we were kids.  Just a smile or two, a few sweet words or turns of thought, and she had what she wanted.”

“Al, what a character to give me!” protested Madeline.  “Indeed, I was deeply in earnest with Stewart.  I do not understand just why, but I trust him.  He seems like iron and steel.  Then I was a little frightened at the prospect of trouble with the vaqueros.  Both you and Stillwell have influenced me to look upon Stewart as invaluable.  I thought it best to confess my utter helplessness and to look to him for support.”

“Majesty, whatever actuated you, it was a stroke of diplomacy,” replied her brother.  “Stewart has got good stuff in him.  He was down and out.  Well, he’s made a game fight, and it looks as if he’d win.  Trusting him, giving him responsibility, relying upon him, was the surest way to strengthen his hold upon himself.  Then that little touch of sentiment about being your kind of cowboy and protecting you—­well, if Gene Stewart doesn’t develop into an Argus-eyed knight I’ll say I don’t know cowboys.  But, Majesty, remember, he’s a composite of tiger breed and forked lightning, and don’t imagine he has failed you if he gets into a fight.

“I’ll sure tell you what Gene Stewart will do,” said Florence.  “Don’t I know cowboys?  Why, they used to take me up on their horses when I was a baby.  Gene Stewart will be the kind of cowboy your sister said he might be, whatever that is.  She may not know and we may not guess, but he knows.”