“I sure was a Texas cowboy，” he answered. “But it was along time ago. And I’m sure bow-legged. You see， you can’tride much when you’re young and soft without getting thelegs bent some. Why， I was only a three-year-old when Ibegun. He was a three-year-old， too， fresh-broken. I ledhim up alongside the fence， clumb to the top rail， anddropped on. He was a pinto， and a real devil at bucking，but I could do anything with him. I reckon he knowed Iwas only a little shaver. Some hosses knows lots more ’n’
you think.”
For half an hour Ross Shanklin rambled on with hishorse reminiscences， never unconscious for a momentof the supreme joy that was his through the touch of hishand on the hem of her dress. The sun dropped slowlyinto the cloud bank， the quail called more insistently， andempty wagon after empty wagon rumbled back across thebridge. Then came a woman’s voice.
“Joan！ Joan！” it called. “Where are you， dear？”
The little girl answered， and Ross Shanklin saw a woman，clad in a soft， clinging gown， come through the gate fromthe bungalow. She was a slender， graceful woman， and tohis charmed eyes she seemed rather to float along thanwalk like ordinary flesh and blood.
“What have you been doing all afternoon？” the womanasked， as she came up.
“Talking， mamma，” the little girl replied， “I’ve had a veryinteresting time.”
Ross Shanklin scrambled to his feet and stood watchfullyand awkwardly. The little girl took the mother’s hand， andshe， in turn， looked at him frankly and pleasantly， with arecognition of his humanness that was a new thing to him.
In his mind ran the thought： the woman who ain’t afraid.
Not a hint was there of the timidity he was accustomed toseeing in women’s eyes. And he was quite aware， and nevermore so， of his bleary-eyed， forbidding appearance.
“How do you do？” she greeted him sweetly and naturally.
“How do you do， ma’am，” he responded， unpleasantlyconscious of the huskiness and rawness of his voice.
“And did you have an interesting time， too？” she smiled.
“Yes， ma’am. I sure did. I was just telling your little girlabout hosses.”
“He was a cowboy， once， mamma，” she cried.
The mother smiled her acknowledgment to him， andlooked fondly down at the little girl. The thought thatcame into Ross Shanklin’s mind was the awfulness of thecrime if any one should harm either of the wonderful pair.
This was followed by the wish that some terrible dangershould threaten， so that he could fight， as he well knewhow， with all his strength and life， to defend them.
“You’ll have to come along， dear，” the mother said. “It’sgrowing late.” She looked at Ross Shanklin hesitantly.
“Would you care to have something to eat？”
“No， ma’am， thanking you kindly just the same. I ... Iain’t hungry.”
“Then say good-bye， Joan，” she counselled.
“Good-bye.” The little girl held out her hand， and hereyes lighted roguishly. “Good-bye， Mr. Man from the bad，wicked world.”
To him， the touch of her hand as he pressed it in his wasthe capstone of the whole adventure.
“Good-bye， little fairy，” he mumbled. “I reckon I got tobe pullin’ along.”
But he did not pull along. He stood staring after hisvision until it vanished through the gate. The day seemedsuddenly empty. He looked about him irresolutely， thenclimbed the fence， crossed the bridge， and slouched alongthe road. He was in a dream. He did not note his feet northe way they led him. At times he stumbled in the dustfilledruts.
A mile farther on， he aroused at the crossroads. Beforehim stood the saloon. He came to a stop and stared at it，licking his lips. He sank his hand into his pants pocket andfumbled a solitary dime. “God！” he muttered. “God！” Then，with dragging， reluctant feet， went on along the road.
He came to a big farm. He knew it must be big， becauseof the bigness of the house and the size and number ofthe barns and outbuildings. On the porch， in shirt sleeves，smoking a cigar， keen-eyed and middle-aged， was thefarmer.
“What’s the chance for a job？” Ross Shanklin asked.
The keen eyes scarcely glanced at him.
“A dollar a day and grub，” was the answer.
Ross Shanklin swallowed and braced himself.
“I’ll pick grapes all right， or anything. But what’s thechance for a steady job？ You’ve got a big ranch here. Iknow hosses. I was born on one. I can drive team， ride，plough， break， do anything that anybody ever done withhosses.”
The other looked him over with an appraising， incredulouseye.
“You don’t look it，” was the judgment.
“I know I don’t. Give me a chance. That’s all. I’ll proveit.”
The farmer considered， casting an anxious glance at thecloud bank into which the sun had sunk.
“I’m short a teamster， and I’ll give you the chance tomake good. Go and get supper with the hands.”
Ross Shanklin’s voice was very husky， and be spoke withan effort.
“All right. I’ll make good. Where can I get a drink ofwater and wash up？”