Slender and supple and strong, it was still only the size of her boots and her hands that would make one look at her twice and then guess that this was a woman, for she was dressed, from trousers even to the bright bandanna knotted around her throat, like any prosperous range rider.
Now, to be sure, the thick coils of black hair told her sex, but when the broad-brimmed sombrero was pulled well down on her head, when the cartridge-belt and the six-gun were slung about her waist, and most of all when she spurred her mount recklessly across the hills no one could have suspected that this was not some graceful boy born and bred in the mountain-desert, willful as a young mountain lion, and as dangerous.
"Sleepy ?" called Wilbur.
She waited a moment and then queried with exaggerated impudence: "Well ?" Ennui unspeakable was in that drawling monotone.
"Brace up; I've got news for you.

And I've brought Pierre along to tell you about it." "Oh!" And she sat bolt upright with shining eyes.

Instantly she remembered to yawn again, but her glance smiled on them above her hand.
She apologized.

"Awfully sleepy, Dick." But he was not deceived.

He said: "There's a dance down near the Barnes place, and Pierre wants you to go with him." "Pierre! A dance ?" He explained: "Dick's lost his head over a girl with yellow hair, and he wants me to go down and see her.