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Margaret crossed the wash to the cottonwood under which her

escort was lying. He was fast asleep on his back, his gray shirt

open at the bronzed, sinewy neck. The supple, graceful lines of

him were relaxed, but even her inexperience appreciated the

splendid shoulders and the long rippling muscles. The maidenly

instinct in her would allow but one glance at him, and she was

turning away when his eyes opened.

Her face, judging from its tint, might have absorbed some of the

sun-glow into which she had been gazing.

"I came to see if you were awake," she explained.

"Yes, ma'am, I am," he smiled.

"I was thinking that we ought to be going. It will be dark before

we reach Mal Pais."

He leaped to his feet and faced her.

"C'rect."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

He relit the fire and put on the coffee-pot before he saddled the

horse. She ate and drank hurriedly, soon announcing herself ready

for the start.

She mounted from his hand; then without asking any questions he

swung to a place behind her.