Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders at Circle O Ranch

“Does anyone know where we are at?” wondered Stacy Brown, the last person to leave his berth in the car that morning.

“We are in the Coso Valley,” replied Grace Harlowe Gray.

“I never heard of it,” returned Stacy. “We are still in Southern California, I presume.”

“Of course. What a silly question!” interjected J. Elfreda Briggs laughingly.

“Young man, we are nearing our destination. If you don’t make haste you will be left,” reminded Grace’s husband, Tom Gray.

“Left! What a tragedy!” murmured Emma Dean. “By the way, Chunky, did you dream last night?” she added, placing a hand on the fat boy’s arm.

“Of course I did. What’s the fun in sleeping if you don’t dream? I dreamed that I was the King of England, and you should have seen—”

“Stacy!” cried Emma in mock horror. “How unfortunate! To counteract the effect of that unhappy dream, try tonight to dream that you are a peasant. If you do not, some terrible misfortune is sure to overtake you.”

“Piffle! Where do you get that stuff, Emma? All right, Thomas. I’ll be ready by the time the train stops,” added Stacy, addressing Tom Gray, and moving on to the wash room, where he remained until the train began to slow down for Carrago, their destination. Carrago was a sleepy little far-western town whose only excuse for existence was that it was the only trading center for the ranchers within a radius of many miles in the broad valley that lay between the Argus and Coso ranges, a remote section of the country selected by Grace Harlowe’s Overland Riders for their regular summer’s outing in the saddle.

The scenery that morning had held the attention of the entire party with the exception of Stacy, who had been too busy sleeping to give heed to mere scenery, and the passengers were already detraining at Carrago when he finally came rushing through the car.

“Shall I brush you off?” asked the porter, facing him, broom in hand.

“Brush me off?” frowned Stacy, who thus far had avoided the porter. “Well, no. I reckon that I’ll just get off in the ordinary way,” he added, hurrying out to the vestibule of the Pullman and down to the station platform.

“That was rude of you, Stacy,” rebuked Miss Briggs, who had heard the boy’s retort.

“Rude? Huh! Do you think I want to be brushed off the train?”

“Oh, Stacy! You are as hopeless as ever, aren’t you?” laughed Grace. “Oh, this wonderful air!” she cried enthusiastically, turning to her companions. “Tom, aren’t you going to look for the guide who was to meet us here?”

Tom Gray said that Hippy Wingate was attending to that, and just then the Overlanders saw him halt before two bewhiskered natives standing on the station platform side by side and assuming almost identically the same pose. Both were old men. Their faces were seamed and tanned, their shoulders stooped, and as they stood with heads tilted back until their long beards protruded at almost the same angle, they presented a picture that made the Overlanders smile.