“Dad an’ I ran to the fence, but before we could catch hold of Glenn he’d jumped down into the pen.”

“‘I’m not carin’ much for what them herders say,’ replied Ruff.

“‘Do you deny it?’ demanded Glenn.

“‘I ain’t denyin’ nothin’, Kilbourne,’ growled Ruff.  ’I might argue against me bein’ disrespectful.  That’s a matter of opinion.’

“‘You’ll apologize for speaking to Miss Burch or I’ll beat you up an’ have Hutter fire you.’

“‘Wal, Kilbourne, I never eat my words,’ replied Ruff.

“Then Glenn knocked him flat.  You ought to have heard that crack.  Sounded like Charley hitting a steer with a club.  Dad yelled:  ’Look out, Glenn.  He packs a gun!’—­Ruff got up mad clear through I reckon.  Then they mixed it.  Ruff got in some swings, but he couldn’t reach Glenn’s face.  An’ Glenn batted him right an’ left, every time in his ugly mug.  Ruff got all bloody an’ he cussed something awful.  Glenn beat him against the fence an’ then we all saw Ruff reach for a gun or knife.  All the men yelled.  An’ shore I screamed.  But Glenn saw as much as we saw.  He got fiercer.  He beat Ruff down to his knees an’ swung on him hard.  Deliberately knocked Ruff into the dip ditch.  What a splash!  It wet all of us.  Ruff went out of sight.  Then he rolled up like a huge hog.  We were all scared now.  That dip’s rank poison, you know.  Reckon Ruff knew that.  He floundered along an’ crawled up at the end.  Anyone could see that he had mouth an’ eyes tight shut.  He began to grope an’ feel around, trying to find the way to the pond.  One of the men led him out.  It was great to see him wade in the water an’ wallow an’ souse his head under.  When he came out the men got in front of him any stopped him.  He shore looked bad. . . .  An’ Glenn called to him, ’Ruff, that sheep-dip won’t go through your tough hide, but a bullet will!”

Not long after this incident Carley started out on her usual afternoon ride, having arranged with Glenn to meet her on his return from work.

Toward the end of June Carley had advanced in her horsemanship to a point where Flo lent her one of her own mustangs.  This change might not have had all to do with a wonderful difference in riding, but it seemed so to Carley.  There was as much difference in horses as in people.  This mustang she had ridden of late was of Navajo stock, but he had been born and raised and broken at Oak Creek.  Carley had not yet discovered any objection on his part to do as she wanted him to.  He liked what she liked, and most of all he liked to go.  His color resembled a pattern of calico, and in accordance with Western ways his name was therefore Calico.  Left to choose his own gait, Calico always dropped into a gentle pace which was so easy and comfortable and swinging that Carley never tired of it.  Moreover, he did not shy at things lying in the road or rabbits darting from bushes or at the upwhirring of birds.  Carley had grown attached to Calico before she realized she was drifting into it; and for Carley to care for anything or anybody was a serious matter, because it did not happen often and it lasted.  She was exceedingly tenacious of affection.