Judge — March 25, 1922 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LO ° “He threw a rope around her and tied it to his saddle horn and once more started.” Carbona of the Tired Z Ranch An Iddle of Arizona By James MonTGoMERY FLaGG Mlustrated by the Author LIDE off’n that cayuse—pronto!” S Carbona DuFay, known affectionately as the “Little Boss,” turned in her saddle as this sharp command startled her and brought her navy blue roan into a sitting posture on the edge of a two thousand foot canon wall. She mechanically tucked her horse's tail under him so as to preserve his balance. Before obeying this imperative order she waited, like the well- trained heroine that she was, for the author to throw off a bale or two of word-painting. Overhead the vivid blue of the Arizona sky fitted so neatly into the lavender sky of New Mexico, just across the line, that none but an expert could have said where it had been pieced. The only living thing in the vast expanse was a single black loathsome arroyo sailing in horrid circles with outspread, moth- eaten wings—waiting—waiting! Two thousand feet and eleven inches below lay the Bad Lands, the haunts of the cattle rustlers, who, it was rumored, were all ex-landlords from the East and had reformed, and were trying to earn a fairly honest living stealing cows. The merciless sun— Carbona DuFay, whose father died suddenly from speaking politely to a sheep rancher in a cow country, was the owner of the Tired Z ranch. She was, though not strictly beautiful, some armful! Or two arms- ful—depended on the length of the arms. She was a picture of girlish girlishness in her dolman-shaped sable chaps and her Georgette waist cut to the pom- mel of the saddle in front. As slim as a boy. A stout boy. She presented such a ravishing vision as she rode fence that even timber wolves, as they caught a glimpse of her, would go blind with joy and dash their brains out on the barbed wire fences! And glad to do it! She looked haughtily at the man who blocked her trail, and as she looked she realized that every fiber of her being—and she had beaucoup de fibers—writhed with antagonism and hate. Never in her life had she felt such an instinctive and deadly loathing for a male person. She couldn’t have loathed him more if he had been born in Berlin. He was on foot. She noticed that he packed two guns—low—they hung just below his knees. “Will you please go to hell?” This