The Range Boss

distance to the door. A girl, attired in a ragged underskirt and equally ragged waist of some checkered material, and a faded house-apron that was many sizes too small for her, stood in the open doorway, watching. She was bare-footed, her hair was in tumbling disorder, though Ruth could tell that it had been combed recently. But the legs, bare almost to the knees, were clean, though brown from tan, and her face and arms glowed pink and spotless, in spite of the rags. In her eyes, as she watched Ruth, was a strange mixture of admiration and defiance. “Dad ain’t hyeh this mornin’,” she volunteered as Ruth climbed off her pony. “I came to see you,” said Ruth, smiling. She threw the reins over the pony’s head and advanced, holding out a hand. “I am Ruth Harkness,” she added, “the new owner of the Flying W. I have been here almost a month, and I just heard that I had a neighbor. Wont you shake hands with me?” “I reckon,” said the girl. Reluctantly, it seemed, she allowed Ruth to take her hand. But she drew it away immediately. “I’ve heard of you,” she said; “you’re a niece of that ol’ devil, Bill Harkness.” She frowned. “He was always sayin’ dad was hookin’ his doggoned cattle. Dad didn’t steal ’em—ol’ Bill Harkness was a liar!” Her eyes glowed fiercely. “I reckon you’ll be sayin’ the same thing about dad.” “No indeed!” declared Ruth. “Your dad and I are going to be friends. I want to be friends with you, too. I am not going to charge your dad with stealing my cattle. We are going to be neighbors, and visit each other. I want to know your dad, and I want you to come over to the Flying W and get acquainted with my aunt and uncle. Aren’t you going to invite me inside? I would if you came to visit me, you know.” She smiled winningly. The girl flushed, and cast a glance at the interior of the cabin, which, Ruth had already noted through the open door, was scantily furnished but clean. Then the girl led the way in, motioned Ruth to a chair near a rough-topped table, and stood over beside a cast-iron stove, her hands hanging at her sides, the fingers crumpling the cloth of the ragged apron. Her belligerence had