The saddle reminded him of Shag Bunce, but the horse was a stranger to him. Nor could he make out the brand in the pale moonlight. It might be a new animal, however, just purchased and not yet branded. In thinking of Shag Bunce he remembered the handsome private car he’d seen on the track that morning. But even if a party went out riding, how did one person get separated? Surely no woman would venture over the desert alone, not a stranger at any rate.

He continued his search in the silver-black shadowy night, but not until the dawn began its blush in the east did he reach the top of the canyon. From there he looked down and saw the girl, with her green riding habit blending into the dark trees, her golden hair glinted with the early light and her pale face turned upward.

He lost no time in climbing down to her, dreading what he might find. She lay in a perilous spot. The sky grew pink and tinted all the clouds with rose as he knelt beside the still form.

A moment served to convince him she was alive; even in the half darkness he could see the drawn, weary expression on her face. Poor girl, lost on the desert! He was glad he’d come to find her.

He gathered her in his arms and carried her up to level ground. Laying her in a sheltered spot, he quickly brought water, bathed her face, and forced some water between the white lips. He chafed her cold hands, blistered from the reins, gave her more water and was rewarded by seeing a faint color steal into her lips and cheeks. Finally the white lids fluttered open for a second, giving him a glimpse of great dark eyes that still mirrored the night’s horrors.

He gave her another drink and then prepared a more comfortable resting place, bringing the canvas from Billy’s pack and one or two other articles that might give comfort, among them a small hot-water bottle. When she was settled on the canvas with the sweet ferns and grass underneath for a pillow and his own blanket spread over her, he gathered wood for a fire. Soon water was boiling in his tin cup, enough to fill the rubber bottle. When he put it in her cold hands, she opened her eyes wide. He smiled reassuringly, and she nestled down in the warmth. She was too weary to question or know anything except that relief had come at last.

In a few minutes he brought her a cup of strong beef tea which he held to her lips and coaxed her to swallow. When she finished it she lay back and slept again with a trembling sigh that was almost like a sob. The young man’s heart was shaken.

He made their temporary camp as comfortable as possible and tended to the horses. Then, returning to his patient, he watched her as she slept and wondered what he should do next.

They were a long distance from any human habitation. Whatever made the horse take this lonely trail was puzzling. It led to a distant Indian settlement, and doubtless the animal was returning to his former master. But why didn’t the rider turn him back?

Then he looked down at the frail girl asleep on the ground and sobered as he thought of the dangers she must have passed through alone and unprotected. The delicacy of her face touched him, and for an instant he forgot everything but her beauty: the lovely profile resting lightly against her raised arm; the fineness and length of her hair, like spun gold in the glint of the sunshine just peering over the rim of the mountain; her clear skin, so white and different from the women in that region; the downward curve of the lips showing her utter exhaustion.

He longed to comfort, guard, and restore her to happiness. A strange, joyful tenderness for her filled him, so he could scarcely draw his gaze from her face. Then all at once he realized she wouldn’t like a stranger to stare at her, and with a quick reverence he lifted his eyes toward the sky.

It was a peculiar morning and beautiful. The clouds were tinted pink almost like a sunset and lasted that way for over an hour, as if the dawn were coming gently that it mightn’t awaken the one who slept.

With one more glance to see if his patient was comfortable, Brownleigh slipped away to gather more wood, bring more water, and prepare for breakfast later when she woke up. In an hour he tiptoed back to see if all was well and, stooping, laid a practiced finger on the delicate wrist to note the flutter of her pulse. If he concentrated he could count it, for it was feeble, as if the heart had been under a heavy strain. But it seemed to be growing steadier.