to have a touch of heat; the morning breeze rustled the thin mesquite foliage; the deep magenta of a cactus flower caught her eye; a long-tailed, cruel-beaked, brown bird sailed so close to her she could have touched it with her whip.  But she was only vaguely aware of these things.  She was watching for Florence, listening for some sound fraught with untoward meaning.  All of a sudden she saw Majesty’s ears were held straight up.  Then Florence’s face, now strangely white, showed round the turn of the trail.

“’S-s-s-sh!” whispered Florence, holding up a warning finger.  She reached the black horse and petted him, evidently to still an uneasiness he manifested.  “We’re in for it,” she went on.  “A whole bunch of vaqueros hiding among the mesquite over the ridge!  They’ve not seen or heard us yet.  We’d better risk riding ahead, cut off the trail, and beat them to the ranch.  Madeline, you’re white as death!  Don’t faint now!”

“I shall not faint.  But you frighten me.  Is there danger?  What shall we do?”

“There’s danger.  Madeline, I wouldn’t deceive you,” went on Florence, in an earnest whisper.  “Things have turned out just as Gene Stewart hinted.  Oh, we should—­Al should have listened to Gene!  I believe—­I’m afraid Gene knew!”

“Knew what?” asked Madeline.

“Never mind now.  Listen.  We daren’t take the back trail.  We’ll go on.  I’ve a scheme to fool that grinning Don Carlos.  Get down, Madeline—­hurry.”

Madeline dismounted.

“Give me your white sweater.  Take it off—­And that white hat!  Hurry, Madeline.”

“Florence, what on earth do you mean?” cried Madeline.

“Not so loud,” whispered the other.  Her gray eyes snapped.  She had divested herself of sombrero and jacket, which she held out to Madeline.  “Heah.  Take these.  Give me yours.  Then get up on the black.  I’ll ride Majesty.  Rustle now, Madeline.  This is no time to talk.”

“But, dear, why—­why do you want—?  Ah!  You’re going to make the vaqueros take you for me!”

“You guessed it.  Will you—­”

“I shall not allow you to do anything of the kind,” returned Madeline.

It was then that Florence’s face, changing, took on the hard, stern sharpness so typical of a cowboy’s.  Madeline had caught glimpses of that expression in Alfred’s face, and on Stewart’s when he was silent, and on Stillwell’s always.  It was a look of iron and fire—­unchangeable, unquenchable will.  There was even much of violence in the swift action whereby Florence compelled Madeline to the change of apparel.

“It ’d been my idea, anyhow, if Stewart hadn’t told me to do it,” said Florence, her words as swift as her hands.  “Don Carlos is after you—­you, Miss Madeline Hammond!  He wouldn’t ambush a trail for any one else.  He’s not killing cowboys these days.  He wants you for some reason.  So Gene thought, and now I believe him.  Well, we’ll know for