ot his yearling deer," answered the
puncher. "It's about half way between that gulch where you say you're
going down and the bend across from the head of Dry Fork Gulch."

"We'll camp there," decided Blake. "It is on the shortest trail to
that gulch, and you'll not have time to get your second load farther
before dark."

The puncher started back. But Isobel, who had come riding up with
Genevieve, called out to stop him: "Wait, Kid. It is almost noon. You
must take lunch with us."

"Can't leave those hawsses standing with the packs, Miss Chuckie, if
they're to make another trip today," he replied.

"Suppose you unload them and come back along the edge of the canyon?"
suggested Blake. "We shall knock off soon and all go over to give my
wife her first look at the canyon. We can eat lunch there together."

To this Gowan nodded a willing assent, and he jogged away, with a half
smile on his thin lips. But that which pleased him had precisely the
opposite effect on Ashton. He did not fancy sharing the companionship
and attention of Miss Knowles with the puncher. As this interference
with his happiness was due to Blake, he showed a petulant resentment
towards the engineer that won him the girl's sympathetic concern. She
attributed his fretfulness to his wound. Blake made the same mistake.

"You've done quite enough for the morning, Ashton, with that head of
yours," he said. "We're over the worst now, and can easily run on up
to the camp this afternoon. We shall knock off for a siesta."

"Needn't try to make out I'm a baby!" snapped Ashton.

"Leave your rod here," went on Blake, disregarding the other's
irascibility. "I'll take the level. It may enable us to see the bottom
of the canyon."

He started on up the slope beside his wife's pony. Ashton was somewhat
mollified when he saw Isobel linger for him to walk beside her horse.
She was carrying the baby, who, regardless of scenic attractions, had
fallen asleep during the long climb from the lower mesa. The sight of
the child clasped to her bosom awakened all that was highest in his
nature. Concern over his wound had sobered her usual gay vivacity to a
look of motherly tenderness.

"Do you know," he murmured during a pause in their conversation, "you
make me think of pictures of the Madonna!"

"Lafe!" she protested, blushing and as quickly paling. "You should not
say such a thing. It is lovely--a beautiful thing to tell me; but--but
I do not deserve it!"

"Madonna!