"Never mind your old hat. Don't talk. I'm selfish. I want to listen to
you, but for all that, you must be quiet."

He sighed. Forget all about that big, wide sombrero--genuine beaver--
that cost him twenty dollars only a week ago? His horse, his saddle,
his hat, his spurs, his gun--he was particular about these
possessions, for in his way Mr. McGraw was something of a frontier
dandy. His calm contempt of life and death amused Donna when she
compared it with his boyish concern for his dashing equipment. Hats,
indeed! Worrying over a lost hat while a guest at the Hat Ranch! If Bob
McGraw could only have understood Donna Corblay's contempt for hats he
would never have mentioned the matter twice.

She gauged the size of his red head with the practiced eye of one who
has sold many hats.

"Seven and a quarter" she mused fondly. "Wouldn't he look splendid in
that big new Stetson that blew in the day before yesterday! You great
big man-baby. I'll save that one for you."

And having decided this momentous question of hats, she kissed him and
went out to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Doctor Taylor and
Harley P. Hennage.

After having breakfasted at the Hat Ranch, Harley P. Hennage helped
himself to Bob McGraw's automatic gun, reloaded it and walked back to
San Pasqual. He had never carried a gun before, but something seemed to
tell him that he might need one to-day. Borax O'Rourke generally
carried one and if Borax had talked, Mr. Hennage meant to chastise him.