“I settle a lot of these little matters that aren’t worth bothering Ashley with,” she explained, “but I tie a string to each of my decisions.  I always make them ‘subject to the Supervisor’s approval.’  Then if I do wrong, all I have to do is to write the man and tell him the Supervisor does not approve.”

“I shouldn’t think you’d like that,” said Bob.

“Like what?”

“Why, it sort of puts you in a hole, doesn’t it?  Lays all the blame on you.”

She laughed in frank amusement.

“What of it?” she challenged.

“Any letters?” Thorne asked abruptly.  “Morton brought mail this morning, didn’t he?”

“Nothing wildly important—­except that they’re thinking of adopting a ranger uniform.”

“A uniform!” snorted California John, rearing his old head.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that,” put in Thorne instantly.  “It’s to be a white pith helmet with a green silk scarf on it; red coat with gold lace, and white, English riding breeches with leather leggins.  Don’t you think old John would look sweet in that?” he asked Bob.

But the old man refused to be drawn out.

“Supervisors same; but with a gold pompon on top the helmet,” he observed.  “What is the dang thing, anyway, Amy?” he asked.

“Dark green whipcord, green buttons, gray hat, military cut.”

“Not bad,” said Thorne.

“About one fifty-mile ride and one fire would make that outfit look like a bunch of mildewed alfalfa.  Blue jeans is about my sort of uniform,” observed John.

“I don’t believe we’d be supposed to wear it on range,” suggested Thorne.  “Only in town and official business.”  He turned to the girl again:  “May have to go over Baldy to-morrow,” said he, “so we’ll run off those letters.”

She arose and saluted, military fashion.  The two disappeared in the tiny box-office, whence presently came the sound of Thorne’s voice in dictation.

California John knocked the ashes from his pipe.

“Get your apron on, sonny,” said he.

He tested the water on the stove and slammed out a commodious dish-pan.

“Glasses first; then silver; and if you break anything, I’ll bash in your fool head.  There’s going to be some style to this dishwashing.  I used to slide ’em all in together and let her go.  But that ain’t the way here.  She knows four aces and the jolly joker better than that.  Glasses first.”

They washed and wiped the dishes, and laid them carefully away.

“She’s a little wonder,” said California John, nodding at the office, “and there ain’t none of the boys but helps all they can.”

Thorne called the old man by name, and he disappeared into the office.  A moment later the girl emerged, smoothing back her hair with both hands.  She stepped immediately to the little kitchen.

“Thank you,” said she.  “That helps.”

“It was old John,” disclaimed Bob.  “I’m ashamed to say I should never have thought of it.”