Before his dull brain had functioned to action an iron grip had him by the back of the neck.  He was jerked to his feet and propelled forward to the curb.  Every inch of the way the heavy stream from the nozzle broke on his face and neck.  It paralyzed his resistance, jarred him so that he could not gather himself to fight.  He was still sputtering “By damn,” when Clay bumped him up against a hitching-post, garroted him, and swung the hose around the post in such a way as to encircle the feet of the man.

The cowpuncher drew the hose tight, slipped the nozzle through the iron ring, and caught the flapping arms of the man to his body.  With the deft skill of a trained roper Clay swung the rubber pipe round the body of the man again and again, drawing it close to the post and knotting it securely behind.  The Swede struggled, but his furious rage availed him nothing.  He was in the hands of the champion roper of Graham County, a man who had hogtied a wild hill steer in thirty-three seconds by the watch.

It took longer than this to rope up the husky janitor with a squirming hose, but when Clay stepped back to inspect his job he knew he was looking at one that had been done thoroughly.

“I keel you, by damn, ef you don’t turn me loose!” roared the big man in a rage.

The range-rider grinned gayly at him.  He was having the time of his young life.  He did not even regret his fifty-five-dollar suit.  Already he could see that Arizona had nothing on New York when it came to getting action for your money.

“Life’s just loaded to the hocks with disappointment, Olie,” he explained, and his voice was full of genial sympathy.  “I’ll bet a dollar Mex you’d sure like to beat me on the haid with a two by four.  But I don’t reckon you’ll ever get that fond wish gratified.  We’re not liable to meet up with each other again pronto.  To-day we’re here and to-morrow we’re at Yuma, Arizona, say, for life is short and darned fleeting as the poet fellow says.”

He waved a hand jauntily and turned to go.  But he changed his mind.  His eye had fallen on a young woman standing at a French window of the house opposite.  She was beckoning to him imperiously.

The young woman disappeared as he crossed the street, but in a few moments the door opened and she stood there waiting for him.  Clay stared.  He had never before seen a girl dressed like this.  She was in riding-boots, breeches, and coat.  Her eyes dilated while she looked at him.

“Wyoming?” she asked at last in a low voice.

“Arizona,” he answered.

“All one.  Knew it the moment I saw you tie him.  Come in.”  She stood aside to let him pass.

That hall, with its tapestried walls, its polished floors, and Oriental rugs, was reminiscent of “the movies” to Clay.  Nowhere else had he seen a home so stamped with the mark of ample means.

“Come in,” she ordered again, a little sharply.