Free Grass (Musaicum Vintage Western). Ernest Haycox

A few yards distant she brought up. Laughter bubbled brimful in her eyes, her cheeks were deep pink, and her nether lip, imprisoned between her teeth, was like a cherry. The exuberant, vivid current of life would not be concealed under the drab clothing, nor behind the poker expression she liked to maintain.

      "Maybe I'll see you up North," said she.

      "If I should meet the posse," he called back, "I'll tell 'em I only saw a fellow by the name of Smith—and that Smith was heading south."

      She flung up a hand, tarried only to see him return the signal, and galloped over the ridge. The day was hot and still. She thought she had never seen it so beautiful. The rolling prairie, marching its countless miles into the blue strip of haze, surrounded her with the rising incense of things growing. How many centuries had it lain so, how many living creatures had passed across its fecund, smiling expanse? Feeling its warmth as she felt it, heady with bursting instincts as herself?

      The Diamond W was twenty minutes west. When the long dusty lane of cattle came into view, a dun ribbon against the green carpet, she had overridden her gaiety. She was bitter with herself. "Why did I make a fool display? He'll think I wanted him to notice me! Oh, darn!"

      Her father called, but she shook her head and passed to the left flank. For the rest of that day she rode with her eyes ahead, her lips pressed together; by turns pensive and turbulent.

      One thing stuck to her mind, its meaning enlarging with each dusty mile. "A lady is square—a lady is honest. Mister Jefferson Davis, is that all it needs to make a lady? Oh, I don't believe it is that simple. Still, he's been East. He ought to know. Darn it, Mister Jefferson Davis, sometimes it would be a great help if I knew how to cry a little! No, that's awfully foolish."

      The red flower in her hair bobbed with the pace of the pony, a vivid signal.