She laughed. "Of course he ran. They all do that once they get away from you. But Snip never could outrun my Midnight," she retorted.
He shook his head slowly, looking at her with frank admiration, as though, for the first time, he understood what a rare and wonderful creature she was.
"And you can ride and rope like that?" he said doubtfully.
She flushed hotly, and there was a spark of fire in the brown eyes. "I suppose you are thinking that I am coarse and mannish and all that," she said with spirit. "By your standards, Mr. Patches, I should have ridden back to the house, screaming, ladylike, for help."
"No, no," he protested. "That's not fair. I was thinking how wonderful you are. Why, I would give—what wouldn't I give to be able to do a thing like that!"
There was no mistaking his earnestness, and Kitty was all sunshine again, pardoning him with a smile.
"You see," she explained, "I have always lived here, except my three years at school. Father taught me to use a riata, as he taught me to ride and shoot, because—well—because it's all a part of this life, and very useful sometimes; just as it is useful to know about hotels and time-tables and taxicabs, in that other part of the world."
"I understand," he said gently. "It was stupid of me to notice it. I beg your pardon for interrupting the story of my rescue. You had just roped Snip while he was doing his best to outrun Midnight—simple and easy as calling a taxi—'Number Two Thousand Euclid Avenue, please'—and there you are."
"Oh, do you know Cleveland?" she cried.
For an instant he was confused. Then he said easily, "Everybody has heard of the famous Euclid Avenue. But how did you guess where Snip had left me?"