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little southwest room where hung the shiny Colt's forty-five in
its worn leather "Texas-style" holster. She murmured incoherent

thanks and sank again to sleep, overcome by the fatigue of
unaccustomed travelling, by the potency of the desert air, by the

excitement of anticipation to which her nerves had long been
strung.

Senor Johnson did not sleep. He was tough, and used to it. He
lit a cigar and rambled about, now reading the newspapers he had

brought with him, now prowling softly about the building, now
visiting the corrals and outbuildings, once even the

thousand-acre pasture where his saddle-horse knew him and came to
him to have its forehead rubbed. The dawn broke in good earnest,

throwing aside its gauzy draperies of mauve. Sang, the Chinese
cook, built his fire. Senor Johnson forbade him to clang the

rising bell, and himself roused the cow-punchers. The girl slept
on. Senor Johnson tip-toed a dozen times to the bedroom door.

Once he ventured to push it open. He looked long within, then
shut it softly and tiptoed out into the open, his eyes shining.

"Jed," he said to his foreman, "you don't know how it made me
feel. To see her lying there so pink and soft and pretty, with

her yaller hair all tumbled about and a little smile on her--
there in my old bed, with my old gun hanging over her that

way--By Heaven, Jed, it made me feel almost HOLY!"
CHAPTER SIX

THE WAGON TIRE
About noon she emerged from the room, fully refreshed and wide

awake. She and Susie O'Toole had unpacked at least one of the
trunks, and now she stood arrayed in shirtwaist and blue skirt.

At once she stepped into the open air and looked about her with
considerable curiosity.

"So this is a real cattle ranch," was her comment.
Senor Johnson was at her side pressing on her with boyish

eagerness the sights of the place. She patted the stag hounds
and inspected the garden. Then, confessing herself hungry, she

obeyed with alacrity Sang's call to an early meal. At the table
she ate coquettishly, throwing her birdlike side glances at the

man opposite.
"I want to see a real cowboy," she announced, as she pushed her

chair back.
"Why, sure!" cried Senor Johnson joyously. "Sang! hi, Sang!

Tell Brent Palmer to step in here a minute."
After an interval the cowboy appeared, mincing in on his

high-heeled boots, his silver spurs jingling, the fringe of his
chaps impacting softly on the leather. He stood at ease, his

broad hat in both hands, his dark, level brows fixed on his
chief.

"Shake hands with Mrs. Johnson, Brent. I called you in because
she said she wanted to see a real cow-puncher."

"Oh, BUCK!" cried the woman.
For an instant the cow-puncher's level brows drew together. Then

he caught the woman's glance fair. He smiled.
"Well, I ain't much to look at," he proffered.

"That's not for you to say, sir," said Estrella, recovering.
"Brent, here, gentled your pony for you," exclaimed Senor

Johnson.
"Oh," cried Estrella, "have I a pony? How nice. And it was so

good of you, Mr. Brent. Can't I see him? I want to see him. I
want to give him a piece of sugar." She fumbled in the bowl.

"Sure you can see him. I don't know as he'll eat sugar. He
ain't that educated. Think you could teach him to eat sugar,

Brent?"
"I reckon," replied the cowboy.

They went out toward the corral, the cowboy joining them as a
matter of course. Estrella demanded explanations as she went

along. Their progress was leisurely. The blindfolded pump mule
interested her.

"And he goes round and round that way all day without stopping,
thinking he's really getting somewhere!" she marvelled. "I think

that's a shame! Poor old fellow, to get fooled that way!"
"It is some foolish," said Brent Palmer, "but he ain't any worse

off than a cow-pony that hikes out twenty mile and then twenty
back."

"No, I suppose not," admitted Estrella.
"And we got to have water, you know," added Senor Johnson.

Brent rode up the sorrel bareback. The pretty animal, gentle as
a kitten, nevertheless planted his forefeet strongly and snorted

at Estrella.
"I reckon he ain't used to the sight of a woman," proffered the

Senor, disappointed. "He'll get used to you. Go up to him
soft-like and rub him between the eyes."'

Estrella approached, but the pony jerked back his head with every
symptom of distrust. She forgot the sugar she had intended to

offer him.
"He's a perfect beauty," she said at last, "but, my! I'd never

dare ride him. I'm awful scairt of horses."
"Oh, he'll come around all right," assured Brent easily. "I'll

fix him."
"Oh, Mr. Brent," she exclaimed, "don't think I don't appreciate

what you've done. I'm sure he's really just as gentle as he can
be. It's only that I'm foolish."

"I'll fix him," repeated Brent.
The two men conducted her here and there, showing her the various

institutions of the place. A man bent near the shed nailing a
shoe to a horse's hoof.

"So you even have a blacksmith!" said Estrella. Her guides
laughed amusedly.

"Tommy, come here!" called the Senor.
The horseshoer straightened up and approached. He was a lithe,

curly-haired young boy, with a reckless, humorous eye and a
smooth face, now red from bending over.

"Tommy, shake hands with Mrs. Johnson," said the Senor. "Mrs.
Johnson wants to know if you're the blacksmith." He exploded in

laughter.
"Oh, BUCK!" cried Estrella again.

"No, ma'am," answered the boy directly; "I'm just tacking a shoe
on Danger, here. We all does our own blacksmithing."

His roving eye examined her countenancerespectfully, but with
admiration. She caught the admiration and returned it, covertly

but unmistakably, pleased that her charms were appreciated.
They continued their rounds. The sun was very hot and the dust

deep. A woman would have known that these things distressed
Estrella. She picked her way through the debris; she dropped her

head from the burning; she felt her delicate garments moistening
with perspiration, her hair dampening; the dust sifted up through

the air. Over in the large corral a bronco buster, assisted by
two of the cowboys, was engaged in roping and throwing some wild

mustangs. The sight was wonderful, but here the dust billowed in
clouds.

"I'm getting a little hot and tired," she confessed at last. "I
think I'll go to the house."

But near the shed she stopped again, interested in spite of
herself by a bit of repairing Tommy had under way. The tire of a

wagon wheel had been destroyed. Tommy was mending it. On the
ground lay a fresh cowhide. From this Tommy was cutting a wide

strip. As she watched lie measured the strip around the
circumference of the wheel.

"He isn't going to make a tire of that!" she exclaimed,
incredulously.

"Sure," replied Senor Johnson.
"Will it wear?"

"It'll wear for a month or so, till we can get another from
town."

Estrella advanced and felt curiously of the rawhide. Tommy was
fastening it to the wheel at the ends only.

"But how can it stay on that way?" she objected. "It'll come
right off as soon as you use it."

"It'll harden on tight enough."
"Why?" she persisted. "Does it shrink much when it dries?"

Senor Johnson stared to see if she might be joking. "Does it
shrink?" he repeated slowly. "There ain't nothing shrinks more,

nor harder. It'll mighty nigh break that wood."
Estrella, incredulous, interested, she could not have told why,

stooped again to feel the soft, yielding hide. She shook her
head.

"You're joking me because I'm a tenderfoot," she accused
brightly. "I know it dries hard, and I'll believe it shrinks a

lot, but to break wood--that's piling it on a little thick."
"No, that's right, ma'am," broke in Brent Palmer. "It's awful

strong. It pulls like a horse when the desert sun gets on it.
You wrap anything up in a piece of that hide and see what

happens. Some time you take and wrap a piece around a potato and
put her out in the sun and see how it'll squeeze the water out of

her."
"Is that so?" she appealed to Tommy. "I can't tell when they are

making fun of me."
"Yes, ma'am, that's right," he assured her.

Estrella passed a strip of the flexible hide playfully about her
wrists.

"And if I let that dry that way I'd be handcuffed hard and fast,"
she said.

"It would cut you down to the bone," supplemented Brent Palmer.
She untwisted the strip, and stood looking at it, her eyes wide.

"I--I don't know why--" she faltered. "The thought makes me a
little sick. Why, isn't it queer? Ugh! it's like a snake!" She

flung it from her energetically and turned toward the ranch
house.

CHAPTER SEVEN
ESTRELLA

The honeymoon developed and the necessary adjustments took place.
The latter Senor Johnson had not foreseen; and yet, when the

necessity for them arose, he acknowledged them right and proper.
"Course she don't want to ride over to Circle I with us," he

informed his confidant, Jed Parker. "It's a long ride, and she
ain't used to riding yet. Trouble is I've been thinking of doing

things with her just as if she was a man. Women are different.
They likes different things."

This second idea gradually overlaid the first in Senor Johnson's
mind. Estrella showed little aptitude or interest in the rougher

side of life. Her husband's statement as to her being still
unused to riding was distinctly a euphemism. Estrella never

arrived at the point of feeling safe on a horse. In time she
gave up trying, and the sorrel drifted back to cow-punching. The

range work she never understood.
As a spectacle it imposed itself on her interest for a week; but

since she could discover no real and vital concern in the welfare
of cows, soon the mere outward show became an old story.

Estrella's sleek nature avoided instinctively all that interfered
with bodilywell-being. When she was cool and well-fed and not

thirsty, and surrounded by a proper degree of feminine
daintiness, then she was ready to amuse herself. But she could

not understand the desirability of those pleasures for which a
certain price in discomfort must be paid. As for firearms, she

confessed herself frankly afraid of them. That was the point at
which her intimacy with them stopped.

The natural level to which these waters fell is easily seen.
Quite simply, the Senor found that a wife does not enter fully

into her husband's workaday life. The dreams he had dreamed did
not come true.

This was at first a disappointment to him, of course, but the
disappointment did not last. Senor Johnson was a man of sense,

and he easily modified his first scheme of married life.


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