Radcliffe’s elder sister who was taking the trip with them, expecting to remain in California with her son. Behind her hovered Hazel’s maid. These two weren’t in the riding party, it appeared.

The horses were brought forward, and the riders mounted, while the spectators remained oblivious to anything except the scene being enacted before them. Their eyes lingered with special interest on the girl of the party.

Miss Radcliffe was small and graceful. She was so fair she almost astounded the eyes of the men and women accustomed to brown cheeks kissed by the sun and wind of the plain. A wild-rose pink enhanced the whiteness of her cheeks and made her face even more dazzling. Masses of golden hair were wreathed about her head in waves and braids. Dark blue eyes, set off by long curling lashes, made you feel when she looked at you that she meant more by the look than you first suspected. The little company of idlers at the station was promptly captivated by those wonderful eyes. To complete the picture, a dimple in her right cheek flashed into view when she smiled.

Her dark green riding habit, the same she wore when attended by her groom in Central Park, made a sensation among the onlookers, as did the dark green velvet riding cap and the pretty riding gloves. She sat her horse well—daintily, though, and not as women out there rode. On the whole the station saw little else but the girl; all the others were mere accessories to the picture.

They noticed that the young man, whose close-cropped golden curls and dark-lashed blue eyes were so like the girl’s that he could only be her brother, rode beside the older man who was presumably the father. And the dark, handsome stranger rode alongside the girl. Every man there resented it, and not a woman regretted it.

At last Shag Bunce gave a parting word to his small but complete outfit riding behind. Then he put spurs to his horse, lifted his sombrero to the lady and shot to the front of the line, with his shaggy mane for which he was named floating over his shoulders.

With the sun shining on a perfect day the riders left, and the group around the platform watched silently until they were a speck in the distance blurring with the sunny plain and occasional ash and cottonwood trees.

“I seen the missionary go by early this mornin’,” said the station agent deliberately, as though he alone had a right to break the silence. “I wonder whar he could ‘a’ bin goin’. He passed on t’other side the track er I’d ‘a’ ast ‘im. He ‘peared in a turrible hurry. Anybody sick over toward the canyon way?”

“Buck’s papoose heap sick,” an Indian muttered and shuffled off the platform.

The women heaved a sigh of disappointment and turned to go. The show was over, and they must return to their monotonous lives. They wondered what it would be like to ride off into the sunshine with cheeks like roses and eyes that saw nothing but pleasure ahead. Awed, they went back to their sturdy children and ill-kept houses, to sit in the sun on the doorsteps and muse awhile.

Hazel Radcliffe was content with the world, herself, and her escort as she rode out. Milton Hamar was good company. He was witty and skilled in the delicate art of flattery. Further, he was wealthy and popular in New York society, her father’s friend both socially and financially, and in their home a great deal lately because of some vast mining enterprise in which both were interested. And his wife was said to be uncongenial and interested in other men rather than her husband. These facts combined to give Hazel a pleasant, half-romantic interest in the man beside her.

She’d sensed a satisfaction and delightful anticipation when her father told her he’d be in their party. His wit and gallantry would make up for having her aunt along, who always put a damper on things. She was propriety personified. She’d tried to make Hazel think she must remain in the car and rest that day instead of going off on a wild goose chase after a mine.