She felt the change, yet did not understand.

One after one she recognized the riders on the slopes below, but Wilson Moore was not among them.

He must be above her, then, and she turned to gaze across the grassy bluff, up the long, yellow slope, to where the gleaming aspens half hid a red bluff of mountain, towering aloft.

Then from far to her left, high up a scrubby ridge of the slope, rang down a voice that thrilled her: "_Go--aloong--you-ooooo_." Red cattle dashed pell-mell down the slope, raising the dust, tearing the brush, rolling rocks, and letting out hoarse bawls.
"_Whoop-ee_!" High-pitched and pealing came a clearer yell.
Columbine saw a white mustang flash out on top of the ridge, silhouetted against the blue, with mane and tail flying.

His gait on that edge of steep slope proved his rider to be a reckless cowboy for whom no heights or depths had terrors.