“You’re going to ride with them,” she accused.

“I thought I would.  I’m not going to saddle myse’f on you two ladies forever.”

“You know we’re glad to have you.  But that isn’t it.  What about your heart?  You know you can’t ride the range.”

He flushed, and knew again that feeling of contempt for himself, or, to be more exact, for his position.

“I’ll be awful careful, Miss Arlie,” was all he found to say.

She could not urge him further, lest he misunderstand her.

“Of course, you know best,” she said, with a touch of coldness.

He saddled Teddy and rode back.  The drive for the day was already on, but he fell in beside young France and did his part.  Before two days had passed he was accepted as one of these hard-riding punchers, for he was a competent vaquero and stood the grueling work as one born to it.  He was, moreover, well liked, both because he could tell a good story and because these sons of Anak recognized in him that dynamic quality of manhood they could not choose but respect.  In this a fortunate accident aided him.

They were working Lost Creek, a deep and rapid stream at the point where the drive ended.  The big Norwegian, Siegfried, trying to head off a wild cow racing along the bank with tail up, got too near the edge.  The bank caved beneath the feet of his pony, and man and horse went head first into the turbid waters.  Fraser galloped up at once, flung himself from his saddle, and took in at a glance the fact that the big blond Hercules could not swim.

The Texan dived for him as he was going down, got hold of him by the hair, and after a struggle managed somehow to reach the farther shore.  As they both lay there, one exhausted, and the other fighting for the breath he had nearly lost forever, Dillon reached the bank.

“Is it all right, Steve?” he called anxiously.

“All right,” grinned the ranger weakly.  “He’ll go on many a spree yet.  Eh, Siegfried?”

The Norwegian nodded.  He was still frightened and half drowned.  It was not till they were riding up the creek to find a shallow place they could ford that he spoke his mind.

“Ay bane all in ven you got me, pardner.”

“Oh, you were still kicking.”

“Ay bane t’ink Ay had van chance not to get out.  But Ay bane not forget dees.  Eef you ever get in a tight place, send vor Sig Siegfried.”

“That’s all right, Sig.”

Nobody wasted any compliments on him.  After the fashion of their kind, they guyed the Norwegian about the bath he had taken.  Nevertheless, Fraser knew that he had won the liking of these men, as well as their deep respect.  They began to call him by his first name, which hitherto only Dillon had done, and they included him in the rough, practical jokes they played on each other.

One night they initiated him—­ an experience to be both dreaded and desired.  To be desired because it implies the conferring of the thirty-second degree of the freemasonry of Cattleland’s approval; to be dreaded because hazing is mild compared with some features of the exercises.