“I want to get the kinks out of my muscles, Dad,” the girl called back.  “I’ll not go far.”

She walked along a ridge that ran from the mesa into the valley like an outstretched tongue.  Her hands were in the pockets of her fawn-colored coat.  There was a touch of unstudied jauntiness in the way the tips of her golden curls escaped from beneath the little brown toque she wore.  A young man guarding the beef herd watched her curiously.  She moved with the untamed, joyous freedom of a sun-worshiper just emerging from the morning of the world.  Something in the poise of the light, boyish figure struck a spark from his imagination.

A vaquero was cantering toward the fire with a calf in his wake.  Another cowpuncher dropped the loop of his lariat on the ground, gave it a little upward twist as the calf passed over it, jerked taut the riata, and caught the animal by the hind leg.  In a moment the victim lay stretched on the ground.  In the gathering gloom the girl could not quite make out what the men were doing.  To her sensitive nostrils drifted an acrid odor of burnt hair and flesh, the wail of an animal in pain.  One of the men was using his knife on the ears of the helpless creature.  She heard another say something about a crop and an underbit.  Then she turned away, faint and indignant.  Three big men torturing a month-old calf—­was this the brave outdoor West she had read about and remembered from her childhood days?  Tears of pity and resentment blurred her sight.

As she stood on the spit of the ridge, a slim, light figure silhouetted against the skyline, the young man guarding the beef herd called something to her that was lost in the bawling of the cattle.  From the motion of his hand she knew that he was telling her to get back to the car.  But the girl saw no reason for obeying the orders of a range-rider she had never seen before and never expected to see again.  Nobody had ever told her that a rider is fairly safe among the wildest hill cattle, but a man on foot is liable to attack at any time when a herd is excited.

She turned her shoulder a little more definitely to the man who had warned her and looked across the parada grounds to the hills swimming in a haze of violet velvet.  Her heart throbbed to a keen delight in them, as it might have done at the touch of a dear friend’s hand long absent.  For she had been born in the Rockies.  They belonged to her and she to them.  Long years in New York had left her still an alien.

A shout of warning startled her.  Above the bellowing of the herd she heard another yell.

“Hi-yi-ya-a!”

A red-eyed steer, tail up, was crashing through the small brush toward the branders.  There was a wild scurry for safety.  The men dropped iron and ropes and fled to their saddles.  Deflected by pursuers, the animal turned.  By chance it thundered straight for the girl on the sand spit.