The gray’s head was up, his ears erect. Robin touched him lightly with the spurs. Stormy took a step or two. He had got it out of his system, so to speak, and had another matter on his mind for the moment.
When Robin’s gaze quite naturally lifted to what attracted the horse he perceived that all unknown he had an audience.
A girl sat on a chestnut horse within thirty feet of him, drawn up against the aspens. She was bareheaded. Her hair was yellow, like ripe corn, very short, almost as short as Robin’s. It curled all over her head in little spirals. She had on a white blouse, a flaming orange scarf encircled her white throat, her skirt was divided and of gray corduroy. Her tan riding-boots were armed with a pair of silver spurs that flashed in the sun and reminded Robin disagreeably of Mark Steele. She had big, clear, very dark blue eyes that rested on Robin with a friendly light in them.
All these details Robin noted in a breath. His hat was still in his hand. He sat erect in his saddle, staring in sheer astonishment. He wasn’t used to apparitions like that. They were rare indeed on the range. He felt thankful that the whimsicalities he had shouted at Stormy, the gray horse, in that wild progress across the flat had not been expressed in the ribald idioms of the cow camps.
“Howdy,” he said politely.
The girl smiled and stepped her horse forward.
“Are you practicing to join Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show?” she asked.
Robin grinned.
“Not that you could notice,” said he, cheerfully. “Just ridin’, that’s all.”
“You seem to enjoy it,” she observed.