She stood paralyzed for a moment.

Out of the gathering darkness a voice came to her sharp and clear.  “Don’t move!” It rang so vibrant with crisp command that the girl, poised for flight, stood still and waited in white terror while the huge steer lumbered toward her.

A cowpony, wheeled as on a dollar, jumped to an instant gallop.  The man riding it was the one who had warned her back to the car.  Horse and ladino pounded over the ground toward her.  Each stride brought them closer to each other as they converged toward the sand spit.  It came to her with a gust of panicky despair that they would collide on the very spot where she stood.  Yet she did not run.

The rider, lifting his bronco forward at full speed, won by a fraction of a second.  He guided in such a way as to bring his horse between her and the steer.  The girl noticed that he dropped his bridle rein and crouched in the saddle, his eyes steadily upon her.  Without slackening his pace in the least as he swept past, the man stooped low, caught the girl beneath the armpits, and swung her in front of him to the back of the horse.  The steer pounded past so close behind that one of its horns grazed the tail of the cowpony.

It was a superb piece of horsemanship, perfectly timed, as perfectly executed.

The girl lay breathless in the arms of the man, her heart beating against his, her face buried in his shoulder.  She was dazed, half fainting from the reaction of her fear.  The next she remembered clearly was being lowered into the arms of her father.

He held her tight, his face tortured with emotion.  She was the very light of his soul, and she had shaved death by a hair’s breadth.  A miracle had saved her, but he would never forget the terror that had gripped him.  Naturally, shaken, as he was, his relief found vent in scolding.

“I told you to stay by the car, honey.  But you’re so willful.  You’ve got to have your own way.  Thank God you’re safe.  If . . . if . . .”  His voice broke as he thought of what had so nearly been.

The girl snuggled closer to him, her arms round his neck.  His anxiety touched her nearly, and tears flooded her eyes.

“I know, Dad.  I . . .  I’ll be good.”

A young man descended from the car, handsome, trim, and well got up.  He had been tailored by the best man’s outfitter in New York.  Nobody on Broadway could order a dinner better than he.  The latest dances he could do perfectly.  He had the reputation of knowing exactly the best thing to say on every occasion.  Now he proceeded to say it.

“Corking bit of riding—­never saw better.  I’ll give you my hand on that, my man.”

The cowpuncher found a bunch of manicured fingers in his rough brown paw.  He found something else, for after the pink hand had gone there remained a fifty-dollar bill.  He looked at it helplessly for a moment; then, beneath the brown outdoor tan, a flush of anger beat into his face.  Without a word he leaned forward and pressed the note into the mouth of the bronco.