FOR the first time in her life--she had been alive twenty-two vivid and zestful years--Virginia Valdés McVeagh, nicknamed, descriptively, “Ginger,” felt something like reverence for a male creature of her own species. Her father, that stolid Scot, had died while she was a hearty and unimaginative child; Aleck, her only brother, killed on the last day of fighting in the Great War, had been her pal and play-fellow, as were, in lesser and varying degrees, the young ranchers of the miles-wide neighborhood, while the _vaqueros_ and old Estrada, _mayordomo_ of her cattle ranch, were her henchmen, loyal, admiring, unquestioning. Always she had been able to divide the men of her world unhesitatingl…
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