These two men were lolling in the less comfortable seat opposite, secretly longing for a quiet smoke outside, yet neither willing to desert this Eastern divinity to his rival.  The big fellow, his arm run carelessly through the leather sling, his bare head projecting half out of the open window, was Jack Moffat, half-owner of the “Golden Rule,” and enjoying a well-earned reputation as the most ornate and artistic liar in the Territory.  For two hours he had been exercising his talent to the full, and merely paused now in search of some fresh inspiration, holding in supreme and silent contempt the rather feeble imitations of his less-gifted companion.  It is also just to add that Mr. Moffat personally formed an ideal accompaniment to his vivid narrations of adventure, and he was fully aware of the fact that Miss Spencer’s appreciative eyes wandered frequently in his direction, noting his tanned cheeks, his long silky mustache, the somewhat melancholy gleam of his dark eyes—­hiding beyond doubt some mystery of the past, the nature of which was yet to be revealed.  Mr. Moffat, always strong along this line of feminine sympathy, felt newly inspired by these evidences of interest in his tales, and by something in Miss Spencer’s face which bespoke admiration.

The fly in the ointment of this long day’s ride, the third party, whose undesirable presence and personal knowledge of Mr. Moffat’s past career rather seriously interfered with the latter’s flights of imagination, was William McNeil, foreman of the “Bar V” ranch over on Sinsiniwa Creek.  McNeil was not much of a talker, having an impediment in his speech, and being a trifle bashful in the presence of a lady.  But he caught the eye,—­a slenderly built, reckless fellow, smoothly shaven, with a strong chin and bright laughing eyes,—­and as he lolled carelessly back in his bearskin “chaps” and wide-brimmed sombrero, occasionally throwing in some cool, insinuating comment regarding Moffat’s recitals, the latter experienced a strong inclination to heave him overboard.  The slight hardening of McNeil’s eyes at such moments had thus far served, however, as sufficient restraint, while the unobservant Miss Spencer, unaware of the silent duel thus being conducted in her very presence, divided her undisguised admiration, playing havoc with the susceptible heart of each, and all unconsciously laying the foundations for future trouble.

“Why, how truly remarkable!” she exclaimed, her cheeks glowing.  “It’s all so different from the East; heroism seems to be in the very air of this country, and your adventure was so very unusual.  Don’t you think so, Mr. McNeil?”

The silent foreman hitched himself suddenly upright, his face unusually solemn.  “Why—­eh—­yes, miss—­you might—­eh—­say that.  He,” with a flip of his hand toward the other, “eh—­reminds me—­of—­eh—­an old friend.”

“Indeed?  How extremely interesting!” eagerly scenting a new story.  “Please tell me who it was, Mr. McNeil.”