Then they would lunge, snorting, to their feet, and with a violent wrestling shake of their bodies send off the dust in a cloud. Their next move was to make a bee line for the open gate to the wide green pasture that gave the valley its name.

Miss Stockwell found the riders, nine of them, grouped before one of the wide doors of the barn. She had a singular feeling that these young Westerners had suddenly become more important and significant to her.

In a group these boys all looked strangely alike. It was necessary to pick one out and study him individually to see where he differed from his comrades. They were all tall, lean, rangy, with the round powerful limbs, the small hips, the slightly bowed legs of the born horseman.

If they were of different complexions it could not be discerned then, for each of them was black from dust and brush. They wore huge sombreros, mostly black, some of them gray, and all were old, slouched, and grimy. Blue jeans, jumpers, and overalls seemed the favorite garb. Several had discarded their chaps, to reveal trousers stuffed into high-topped, high-heeled boots, shiny and worn, bearing long spurs with huge rowels.

They responded to Miss Stockwell’s greeting with the slow, drawling Texas speech that never failed to please her.

“Boys, I want one of you to do me an especial favor,” she said.

Enoch Thurman came from behind the group. He was the chief of this clan, a lofty-statured rider, the very sight of whom had always fascinated her.

“Wal, Miss Mary, if it’s takin’ you to the dance, I’m shore puttin’ up my bid,” he drawled. He had wonderfully clear light-gray eyes, and the piercing quality of their gaze was now softened by a twinkle. A smile, too, changed the rigidity of the dark lean face.

It occurred to Miss Stockwell that from the date of Georgiana’s arrival she would have to attend the dances. The prospect was alarming. The few functions of this kind in which she had participated had rendered her somewhat incapable for teaching the next day. For these boys had kept her dancing unremittingly from dark till dawn.

“I accept your kind invitation, Enoch, but that’s not the favor I mean,” she said, with a smile.

Then Boyd Thurman lunged up, smiling. He was stalwart, big-shouldered, of strong rugged face, hard as bronze, and his blue eyes were as frank as a child’s. He tipped back his sombrero, showing a shock of tow-colored hair.

“Teacher, what is this heah favor?” he inquired.

“Reckon we’re all a-rarin’ to do you any favor,” said Wess Thurman. He was a cousin of Boyd’s and Enoch’s, twenty-two, with the Thurman stature and wide-open eyes.

“It’s to go to Ryson tomorrow to meet my sister,” responded Miss Stockwell.

The announcement was not a trivial one in its content. Indeed, it seemed of tremendous importance. The boys reacted slowly to its significance.

“Tomorrow,” spoke up Enoch, regretfully. “Wal, I’m shore sorry. But I can’t go, Miss Mary. We rode Mescal Ridge today, an’ I drove some yearlin’s inside our drift fence. They belong to that Bar XX outfit, an’ shore there’s no love lost between us. I’m drivin’ them off our range tomorrow.”

Judging from the eagerness of the rest of the boys, with the exception of Cal Thurman, they all preferred meeting Miss Stockwell’s sister to driving cattle. And for several moments it appeared that Enoch would not have much help on the morrow.

“Goodness! I don’t want you all!” she protested. “One of you will do. If it’s such an occasion, you might draw lots.”

But this suggestion did not meet with the approval of the majority. They argued about it. Miss Stockwell had long been used to their simplicity, their earnestness and loquacity, and when opposed, their singular perversity to one another’s ideas and persistence in their own. They argued so determinedly that the teacher feared one of the quarrels which were of daily, almost hourly, occurrence.