George nodded.

“That’s my idea.  What’s our part?”

“I think it’s to assist in the reaction.  Your story’s a striking one.  We had better get it into a newspaper as soon as possible.  I suppose it would be correct to say that Grant was cruelly beaten?”

“His face is blue from jaw to temple.  They knocked him nearly senseless with the butt of a whip, while he was lying, helpless, on the ground.”

“And your horse was badly wounded?”

“I wish it weren’t true; there’s a gash about eight inches long.  If it will assist the cause, you can say the stab was meant for me.”

“Well,” said Hardie, “I think it will make a moving tale.  I’m afraid, however, I’ll have to lay some stress upon the single-handed rescue.”

George looked dubious.

“I’d rather you left that out.”

“We must impress the matter on people’s thoughts, make it command attention; a little diplomacy is allowable now and then,” said Hardie, smiling.  “Since you don’t mind getting yourself into trouble, I don’t see why you should object to being held up to admiration, and it’s in an excellent cause.  Now, however, I’ll order breakfast for you, and then you had better get some sleep.”

During the afternoon, George set off for home, and he was plowing for the summer fallow a week later when Flora Grant rode up to him.

“I suppose you have got your mail and have seen what the Sentinel says about you?” she asked mischievously.

George looked uncomfortable, but he laughed.

“Yes,” he confessed.  “It seemed to afford Edgar some amusement.”

“Who’s responsible for that flattering column?  It doesn’t read like the work of the regular staff.”

“I’m afraid that I am, to some extent, though Hardie’s the actual culprit.  The fact is, he thought the course was necessary.”

“Well, I suspected something of the kind; so did my father.  It was a wise move, and I think it will have its effect.”

George made no comment and she sat silent a moment or two while he watched her with appreciation.  She was well-mounted on a beautiful, carefully-groomed horse; the simple skirt and bodice of pale gray emphasized the pure tinting of her face and hands and the warm glow of her hair, in which the fierce sunshine forced up strong coppery gleams.  Her lips formed a patch of crimson, there was a red band on her wide Stetson hat, and her eyes shone a deep blue as she looked down at George, who stood in the sandy furrow leaning against the heavy plow.  He was dressed in old overalls that had faded with dust and sun to the indefinite color of the soil, but they displayed the fine lines of a firmly knit and muscular figure.  His face was deeply bronzed, but a glow of sanguine red shone through its duskier coloring.  Behind them both ran a broad sweep of stubble, steeped in strong ochre, relieved by brighter lemon hues where the light blazed on it.