“We’re keeping Mr. Adams, Peter Pan.  He is anxious to be off.  He has been ready for quite a while and I think he has been waiting till you appeared so that he could say good-bye.”

“Are you anxious to be off?” she queried.

“Yes, ma’am.  It’s twenty miles over the ridge to good grass and water.”

“Why, twenty miles isn’t so far!”

“They’s considerable up and down in them twenty miles, Miss Bronson. 
Now, it wouldn’t be so far for a turkey.  He could fly most of the way. 
But a horse is different, and I’m packin’ a right fair jag of stuff.”

“Well, good-bye, ranger man.  Good-bye, Gray Leg,—­and you two poor horses that have to carry the packs.  Don’t stay away all winter.”

Lorry swung up and started the pack-horses.  At the edge of the timber he turned and waved his hat.  Dorothy and her father answered with a hearty Good-bye that echoed through the slumbering wood lands.

One of Bronson’s horses raised his head and nickered.  “Chinook is saying ‘Adios,’ too.  Isn’t the air good?  And we’re right on top of the world.  There is Jason, and there is St. Johns, and ’way over there ought to be the railroad, but I can’t see it.”

Bronson smiled down at her.

She reached up and pinched his cheek.  “Let’s stay here forever, daddy.”

“We’ll see how my girl is by September.  And next year, if you want to come back—­”

“Come back!  Why, I don’t want to go away—­ever!”

“But the snow, Peter Pan.”

“I forgot that.  We’d be frozen in tight, shouldn’t we?”

“I’m afraid we should.  Shall we look at the mail?  Then I’ll have to go to work.”

“Mr. Adams thinks quite a lot of his horses, doesn’t he?” she queried.

“He has to.  He depends on them, and they depend on him.  He has to take good care of them.”

“I shouldn’t like it a bit if I thought he took care of them just because he had to.”

“Oh, Adams is all right, Peter.  I have noticed one or two things about him.”

“Well, I have noticed that he has a tremendous appetite,” laughed Dorothy.

“And you’re going to have, before we leave here, Peter Pan.”

“Then you’d better hurry and get that story written.  I want a new saddle and, oh, lots of things!”

Bronson patted her hand as she walked with him to the cabin.  He sat down to his typewriter, and she came out with a book.

She glanced up occasionally to watch the ponies grazing on the mesa.  She was deeply absorbed in her story when some one called to her.  She jumped up, dropping her book.

Bud Shoop was sitting his horse a few paces away, smiling.  He had ridden up quietly to surprise her.

“A right lovely mornin’, Miss Bronson.  I reckon your daddy is busy.”

“Here I am,” said Bronson, striding out and shaking hands with the supervisor.  “Won’t you come in?”