Alfred, standing in the door, swept the gray valley with his field-glass.
“Bill, I see running stock-horses or cattle; I can’t make out which. I guess we’d better rustle over there.”
Both men hurried out, and while the horses were being brought up and saddled Madeline and Florence put away the breakfast-dishes, then speedily donned spurs, sombreros, and gauntlets.
“Here are the horses ready,” called Alfred. “Flo, that black Mexican horse is a prince.”
The girls went out in time to hear Stillwell’s good-by as he mounted and spurred away. Alfred went through the motions of assisting Madeline and Florence to mount, which assistance they always flouted, and then he, too, swung up astride.
“I guess it’s all right,” he said, rather dubiously. “You really must not go over toward Don Carlos’s. It’s only a few miles home.”
“Sure it’s all right. We can ride, can’t we?” retorted Florence. “Better have a care for yourself, going off over there to mix in goodness knows what.”
Alfred said good-by, spurred his horse, and rode away.
“If Bill didn’t forget to telephone!” exclaimed Florence. “I declare he and Al were sure rattled.”
Florence dismounted and went into the house. She left the door open. Madeline had some difficulty in holding Majesty. It struck Madeline that Florence stayed rather long indoors. Presently she came out with sober face and rather tight lips.