ove a valuable acquaintance
for you."

Roger, whose wrath against Von Minden had disappeared much to his own
astonishment, nodded his head, and once more silence fell between them.

It was ten o'clock when Roger next observed the inexorable hand of the
alarm clock.

"I wish I'd never learned to tell time," he said as he rose reluctantly,
"and I wish you'd tell me as much about yourself as I've told you about
me."

"There's so little to tell," protested Charley.

"Oh, there's a great deal to tell," contradicted Roger. "The chief thing
being why the desert has changed you from a chatterbox to a Sphinx."

"That you'll never know! Run along home now before the coyotes or Von
Minden get you."

Roger grinned and said good night.

He was up with the birds the next morning, prepared to give a long day's
work to cleaning the well and covering it. It was not yet noon when he
saw a curious procession moving toward the camp along the Archer's
Springs trail. It appeared to consist of a small string of burros, led
by a bright red or pink umbrella.

"I thought somebody said the desert was lonesome," said Roger to
himself. "Me--I run a regular wayside inn." He lighted his pipe and sat
down on the well curb to wait. Gradually he discerned that the pink
parasol, undulating now against the sapphire of the sky, now against the
dancing yellow of a sand drift, was upheld by a woman who sat astride a
tiny burro. It was ten minutes after he discovered this that the lady
rode majestically into the camp and dismounted, with magnificent
gesture, throwing one leg over the burro's drooping head. The three
burros who were strung behind her stopped in their tracks as though half
dead.

Roger rose and doffed his hat. This was the largest woman he ever had
seen. She was easily three inches taller than Roger and splendidly
proportioned, huge of shoulder, broad of hip, but without an ounce of
fat upon her. Her face was gaunt and brown: thin lips, long thin nose,
gray eyes set deep, iron gray hair straggling over her forehead from
under a dusty pink sunbonnet. She wore a linen duster buttoned close to
her chin.

"How do you do, sir," she said in a pleasantly modulated voice. "My name
is Clarissa Foster von Minden."

"Mine is Roger Moore. Won't you come into the cook tent and let me get
you some lunch?"

"Yes, thank you," looking about her with keen interest. "This is the
place."

Roger, lighting the gasoline stove, looked at his caller