"My literary career was killed, blighted in the bud. And, as my income was small and I had to do something to make out a living, I've just turned my hand to anything that came along.
"Instead of gaining fame as the American George Eliot, I've been called Colorado Cow-girl and Bronco Buster. Instead of wielding the pen, I've driven a four-horse stage, branded cattle, broken saddle horses, sung in a church choir, run a blacksmith's shop, kept school, given music lessons, run a hotel, taught painting, carried mail, roughed it on horseback all the way from Colorado to Oregon, and taken a hand in pretty much everything else, except shoveling wind off the roof. But there"—breaking off suddenly—"you aren't interested in all this. What you want now is rest and shelter.
"Take my outfit and make tracks for Wilkins ranch. Just give the pony his head and he'll land you all right.
"It's over that way," rising and gesturing toward the southeast.
I tried to protest against this plan, but the Colorado cow-girl was already several yards away.
"That's all right; meet you later at the ranch," she cried, turning for a moment before she plunged into the thicket. "But first," she added, with almost maternal solicitude, "I think I'll just look around and see if I can't find that little speckled heifer."
In a Tiger Trap.
BY CHARLES EDWARD BARNS.
