in the east but even when the mountains were huge and black against flaming colors of the horizon sky, there was no breaking of Marianne’s gloom.  Now and then, hopelessly, she raised her field glasses and swept a segment of the compass.  But it was an automatic act, and her own forecast of failure obscured her vision, until at last, saddle-racked, trembling with weariness and grief, she stopped the mare.  She was beaten!

She had turned the bay towards the home-trail when something subconsciously noted made her glance over her shoulder.  And she saw them!  She needed no glass to bring them close.  Those six small forms moving over the distant hill could be nothing else, but if she doubted, all room for doubt was instantly removed, for in a moment a group of horsemen passed raggedly over the same crest.  Hervey had found them, after all!  Tears of relief and astonishment streamed down her face.  God bless Lew Hervey for this good work!

Even the bay seemed to recover her spirit at the sight.  She had picked up her head before she felt the rein of the mistress and now she answered the first word by swinging into a brisk gallop that overhauled the others swiftly.  How the eyes of Marianne feasted on the reclaimed truants!  They danced along gaily, their slender bodies shining with sweat in the light of the early day, and Lady Mary mincing in the lead.  A moment later, Marianne was among her cowpunchers.

They were stolid as ever but she knew them well enough to understand by the smiles they interchanged, that they were intensely pleased with their work of the night.  Then she found herself crying to Hervey:  “You’re wonderful!  Simply wonderful!  How could you have followed them so far and found them in the night?”

At that, of course, Hervey became exceedingly matter of fact.  He spoke as though the explanation were self-evident.

“They busted away in a straight line,” he said, “so I knew by that that something was leading ’em.  Them bays ain’t got sense enough of their own to run so straight.”  She noted the slur without anger.  “Well, what was leading ’em must of been what let ’em out of the corral; and what let ’em out of the corral—­”

“Horse thieves!” cried Marianne, but Hervey observed her without interest.

“Hoss stealing ain’t popular around these parts for some time,” he said.  “Rustle a cow, now and then, but they don’t aim no higher—­not since we strung Josh Sinclair to the cottonwood.  Nope, they was stole, but not by a man.”

Here he made a tantalizing pause to roll a cigarette with Marianne exclaiming:  “If not a man, then what on earth, Mr. Hervey?”

He puffed out his answer with the first big cloud of smoke:  “By another hoss!  I guessed it right off.  Remember what I said last night about the chestnut stallion and the bad luck he put on my gun?”

She recalled vividly how Hervey, with the utmost solemnity, had avowed that the leader of the mustangs put “bad luck” on his bullets and that they had not seen the last of the horse.  She dared not trust herself to answer Lew but glanced at the other men to see if they were not smiling at their foreman’s absurd idea; they were as grave as images.