the horse and ran toward him. Could this be the man
she had left but half an hour since so full of vital strength and youth?
His vest and shirt were torn to ribbons so that they did not cover the
mauled and bruised flesh at all. Every exposed inch of his head and body
had its wounds to show. He was drenched with blood. The sight of his
face wrung her heart.

"What did he do to you?" she cried with a sob, slipping an arm round his
waist to support him.

"I said I'd be the one to come," he told her as he leaned against the
neck of his pony.

"Oh, why did you do it?" And swiftly on the heels of that cry came the
thought of relief for him. "I'll get you water. I'll bathe your wounds."

"No. We've got to get out of here. Any time some of Pasquale's men may
come. His camp is not far."

"But you can't go like that. You're hurt."

"That's all right. Nothing the matter with me. Can you get on alone?"

"Can you?" she asked in turn, after she had swung to the saddle.

He had to try it three times before he succeeded in getting into the
seat. So weak was he that as the horse moved he had to cling with both
hands to the pommel of the saddle to steady himself. Ruth rode close
beside him, all solicitude and anxiety.

"You ought not to be riding. I know your wounds hurt you cruelly," she
urged in a grave and troubled voice.

"I reckon I can stand the grief. When I've had a bath and a good sleep
I'll be good as new."

She asked timidly the question that filled her mind. "Did you--What
about him?"

"Did I kill him? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"No, I reckon not. He was lying senseless when I left, but I expect
he'll come to."

"Oh, I hope so ... I do hope so."

He looked at her, asking no questions. Some men would have broken into
denunciation of the scoundrel, would have defended the course they had
followed. This man did neither the one nor the other. She might think
what she pleased. He had fought from an inner compulsion, not to win her
applause. No matter how she saw it he could offer no explanations or
apologies.

"I hope so because--because of you," she continued. "Now I know him for
what he is. I'm through with him for always." Then, in a sudden burst of
frankness: "I never did trust him, really."

"You've had good luck. Some women find out things too late," he
commented simply.

After that they rode in silence, except at long intervals when she asked
him if he was in pain or too tired