watch, but even that sixty minutes of inaction did
not bring her better judgment to the rescue.

Sober judgment had no place in her thoughts. Instead, she spent the time
in wondering if Tango would let her catch him in the corral; in fretting
because she must wait at all, when there was no telling what might have
happened at Sinkhole; and in giving audience to a temptation that came
with the lagging minutes and began persuading her that Tango was too slow
for the trip she had before her; and in climbing into bed, turning over
three times and climbing out again, leaving the light covering in its
usual heap in the middle.

It was half-past nine when she climbed out of her window with her riding
shoes and puttees, her lunch and her camera and her field glasses, in a
bundle under one arm. She went in her moccasins until she had passed the
bunk house and reached the shed where she kept her saddle.

A dozen horses were dozing over by the feed rack in the corral, and Mary
V's eyes strayed often that way while she was clothing her feet for the
ride. Tango was a good little horse, but he was not the horse for a
heroine to ride when she went out across the desert at midnight to
rescue--er--a good-for-nothing, conceited, quarrelsome, altogether
unbearable young man whom she thoroughly hated, but who was, after all,
a human being and therefore to be rescued when necessary.

Would she dare--? Mary V hurried the last puttee buckle, picked up her
bridle and a battered feed pan, and went quietly across the corral.
Wondering if she would dare made her daring.

Most of the horses sidled off from her approach and began to circle
slowly to the far side of the corral. Tango lifted his head and looked
at her reproachfully, moved his feet as though tempted to retreat, and
thought better of it. What was the use? Mary V always did what she wanted
to do; if not in one way, then in another. Knowing her so well, Tango
stood still.

Mary V smiled. Just beyond him another horse also stood still. A tall,
big-chested, brilliant-eyed brown, with a crinkly mane, forelock, and
tail, and with a reputation that made his name familiar to men in other
counties. His official name was Messenger, but the boys called him Jake
for short. They also asserted pridefully that he had "good blood in him."
He belonged to Bill Hayden, really, but the whole Rolling R outfit felt a
proprietary interest in him because he had "cleaned up" every horse in
southern Arizon