A trestle burned down on the International Railroad. The south-bound from San Antonio wascut off for the next forty-eight hours. On that train was Tonia Weaver's Easter hat.Espirition, the Mexican, who had been sent forty miles in a buckboard from the Espinosa Ranchto fetch it, returned with a shrugging shoulder and hands empty except for a cigarette. At the smallstation, Nopal, he had learned of the delayed train and, having no commands to wait, turned hisponies toward the ranch again.Now, if one supposes that Easter, the Goddess of Spring, cares any more for the after-churchparade on Fifth Avenue than she does for her loyal outfit of subjects that assemble at the meetinghouse at Cactus, Tex., a mistake has been made. The wives and daughters of the ranchmen of theFrio country put forth Easter blossoms of new hats and gowns as faithfully as is done anywhere, andthe Southwest is, for one day, a mingling of prickly pear, Paris, and paradise. And now it was GoodFriday, and Tonia Weaver's Easter hat blushed unseen in the desert air of an impotent express car, beyond the burned trestle. On Saturday noon the Rogers girls, from the Shoestring Ranch, and EllaReeves, from the Anchor-O, and Mrs. Bennet and Ida, from Green Valley, would convene at theEspinosa and pick up Tonia. With their Easter hats and frocks carefully wrapped and bundledagainst the dust, the fair aggregation would then merrily jog the ten miles to Cactus, where on themorrow they would array themselves, subjugate man, do homage to Easter, and cause jealousagitation among the lilies of the field.Tonia sat on the steps of the Espinosa ranch house flicking gloomily with a quirt at a tuft ofcurly mesquite. She displayed a frown and a contumelious lip, and endeavored to radiate an aura ofdisagreeableness and tragedy."I hate railroads," she announced positively. "And men. Men pretend to run them. Can you giveany excuse why a trestle should burn? Ida Bennet's hat is to be trimmed with violets. I shall not goone step toward Cactus without a new hat. If I were a man I would get one."Two men listened uneasily to this disparagement of their kind. One was Wells Pearson, foremanof the Mucho Calor cattle ranch. The other was Thompson Burrows, the prosperous sheepmanfrom the Quintana Valley. Both thought Tonia Weaver adorable, especially when she railed atrailroads and menaced men. Either would have given up his epidermis to make for her an Easter hatmore cheerfully than the ostrich gives up his tip or the aigrette lays down its life. Neither possessedthe ingenuity to conceive a means of supplying the sad deficiency against the coming Sabbath.Pearson's deep brown face and sunburned light hair gave him the appearance of a schoolboy seizedby one of youth's profound and insolvable melancholies. Tonia's plight grieved him through andthrough. Thompson Burrows was the more skilled and pliable. He hailed from somewhere in theEast originally; and he wore neckties and shoes, and was made dumb by woman's presence.