He was the handsomest of the lot. With his fine intent eyes straight ahead, not noticing Cherry, he crossed the room and went into the hallway. Cherry had watched him pass in a surprise that grew into pique. He had never looked once at her. He would have to pay for that slight.

“Wal! Yore shore some pert little dogie,” Wess remarked, lighting a match for her.

“Dogie? Say, Mister Cowboy, explain what you mean.”

“A dogie is a calf or a colt that ain’t got no mother.”

“Where did you learn anything about me?” Cherry asked, a bit wary.

“Shore any kid with a ma couldn’t ever roll a cigarette an’ smoke it like you do.”

“Indeed. Wess, are you a desert preacher?” queried Cherry distantly.

“Sorry, miss. Shore didn’t mean to hurt yore feelin’s. But it kind of got me…seein’ you smoke like thet. Yore so damn’…’scuse me, I mean yore so shore pretty that it goes ag’in’ my grain to see you up to dance-hall tricks.”

“You don’t like women to smoke?” Cherry returned curiously.

“Perticular, I don’t like to see you smokin’.”

“Then I won’t,” Cherry decided, and, walking to the fireplace, she threw the cigarette down.

“Jes…jes ’cause I don’t like you to smoke?” Wess ejaculated rapturously.

“Jes ’cause you don’t like me to.”

“An’ you’ll forgive me fer talkin’ like I did?”

“Surely.”

“I’m askin’ you to prove thet.”

“How?”

“Go ridin’ with me tomorrow,” Wess suggested breathlessly. “You can ride my pet hoss. He’s shore gentle. You don’t wanna ride any of these hombres’ horses. You might get throwed an’ hurt. They’re shore mean.”

“I’d love to go with you,” Cherry responded dreamily.

At this moment the handsome cowboy returned, and was again crossing the room, straight-eyed and hurried, when Wess hailed him. “Rustle now, you cowboy. Fetch them bags in.”

Cherry had taken a few steps forward. The cowboy glided around the table to avoid encountering her, and then bolted out of the room.

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Cherry. “You’d think I was Medusa. He didn’t see me…He simply didn’t see me! Who is he?”

“Thet’s Zoroaster. Mormon cowpuncher. Fine fellar, but awful scared of women. Ain’t never seen any but Mormon girls. He’ll never look at you.”

“Oh, he won’t,” replied Cherry with a threat in her voice.

“Shore not. An’ don’t you ever talk to him. He’d like as not drop dead. Last year a girl from the East asked him to dance, an’ he run right out of the hall. Didn’t show up for a week.”

“It’s an awful chance to take, but that boy needs reforming,” declared Cherry.

Wess stared at her a moment before he took to his defense. “Wal, for gawd’s sake!”

Mojave came in with a sly grin on his ruddy face. “Wess, Mister Linn is askin’ fer you,” he said.

“Where?” Wess asked in both doubt and disgust.

“He’s gone out to the post and wants you pronto.”

Wess went out grumbling and Mojave approached Cherry with evident profound satisfaction.

“Looks like you’re goin’ to be as popular as stickin’ paper with flies,” he said meaningly.

“Mojave, after flies take to flypaper they struggle to get away. That’s not a pretty compliment.”

“Say! Did you know you called me Mojave?” he asked in amazement.

Cherry feigned surprise.