We never knowed any but ornery-eyed, kickin', bitin' cayuses."

"Red, I remember a few that you couldn't call that. Baldy, Whiteface, Spot--and you couldn't forget Dusty--that broke his heart and died on his feet for you."

"Shet up! I wasn't meanin' a hoss in at thousand. Lord, could I forget the day Dusty outrun them Comanches?"

Jones sauntered over, accompanied by a brawny young man whom he introduced as Larry. "Boss's orders are for you each to pick out five horses. Hurry now!"

"Wal, Rol, they look so darn good I don't see any sense in pickin' atall. But it's fun... Sterl, toss you for first pick."

Red won, and his choice was the very black that Sterl had set his heart on. Still in a moment, he burst out with enthusiasm, "There's a chestnut. Gosh, what a hoss! I pick him..."

"Here's a sorrel for me. I'll name him after you, Red. But I don't see a black like that one you beat me to."

Leslie's rich contralto rang out from behind. "What's that about a black?"

"Hello. I wondered about you," replied Sterl.

"Mawnin', Leslie," drawled Red. "I kinda like you better in them ridin' togs. Not so dangerous lookin' to a pore cowboy... Looks like you been ridin' some, at thet."

Indeed she did, thought Sterl, and could not recall any ranch girl who equaled her. Leather worn thin, shiny metal, spurs that showed bits of horsehair, ragged trousers stuffed in high boots, gray blouse and colorful scarf, her chestnut hair in a braid down her back--these charmed Sterl, entirely aside from her gold-tan cheeks with their spots of red, her curved lips, like cherries, and her flashing eyes.

"Red got first pick on me," explained Sterl. "Snitched that black."

"Not too bad, you cowboys," returned Leslie, her glance taking in their choice.

"You Yankees are the queerest talking people!" said Leslie when the cowboys had finished their horse-choosing contest. "But I believe you'll be good cobbers. Come now, I'll show you some real Australian horses."

Sterl had prepared himself for a treat to a horse lover's eyes, but when he looked through the fence of a corral adjoining the shed he could hardly credit his sight. He beheld the finest horses he had ever seen in one bunch in his whole range experience. These were not shaggy, dusty, range-free animals, but well-groomed, sleek and shiny thoroughbreds in the pink of condition.

"Leslie--who takes such grand care of these horses?" gasped Sterl.

"I do--a little. But Friday does most of it. He's my black man. Dad sent him uptown... You might say something."

"I can't, child," returned Sterl, feelingly. "Horses have been the most important things in my life. And these of yours! But are they really yours, Leslie?"

"Indeed they are. Mine! I haven't anything else. Hardly a new dress to my name.