But today, when she regained her room in the hotel, she walked up and down with the feeling that she was struggling against manifest destiny.  And in a rare burst of self-pity, she paused in front of the window, gritting her teeth to restrain a flood of tears.

A cowpuncher rocked across the blur of her vision on his pony, halted, and swung down in front of the stable across the street.  The horse staggered as the weight came out of the stirrup and that made Marianne watch with a keener interest, for she had seen a great deal of merciless riding since she came West and it always angered her.  The cowpunchers used “hoss-flesh” rather than horses, a distinction that made her hot.  If a horse were not good enough to be loved it was not good enough to be ridden.  That was one of her maxims.  She stepped closer to the window.  Certainly that pony had been cruelly handled for the little grey gelding swayed in rhythm with his panting; from his belly sweat dripped steadily into the dust and the reins had chafed his neck to a lather.  Marianne flashed into indignation and that, of course, made her scrutinize the rider more narrowly.  He was perfect of that type of cowboy which she detested most:  handsome, lithe, childishly vain in his dress.  About his sombrero ran a heavy width of gold-braid; his shirt was blue silk; his bandana was red; his boots were shop-made beauties, soft and flexible; and on his heels glittered—­gilded spurs!

“And I’ll wager,” thought the indignant Marianne, “that he hasn’t ten dollars in the world!”

He unknotted the cinches and drew off the saddle, propping it against one hip while he surveyed his mount.  In spite of all his vainglory he was human enough to show some concern, it appeared.  He called for a bucket of water and offered it to the dripping pony.  Marianne repressed a cry of warning:  a drink might ruin a horse as hot as that.  But the gay rider permitted only a swallow and then removed the bucket from the reaching nose.

The old man who apparently sat all day and every day beside the door of the stable, only shifting from time to time to keep in shadow, passed his beard through his fist and spoke.  Every sound, even of the panting horse, came clearly to her through the open window.

“Kind of small but kind of trim, that hoss.”

“Not so small,” said the rider.  “About fifteen two, I guess.”

“Measured him?”

“Never.”

“I’d say nigher onto fifteen one.”

“Bet my spurs to ten dollars that he’s fifteen two; and that’s good odds for you.”

The old man hesitated; but the stable boy was watching him with a grin.

“I’ll take that bet if—­” he began.

The rider snapped him up so quickly that Marianne was angered again.  Of course he knew the height of his own horse and it would be criminal to take the old loafer’s money, but that was his determination.

“Get a tape, son.  We’ll see.”