Sandy led the way on the mare to a shelving
bench, a place where he had camped once long before and, with his
out-of-doors-man's craft, never forgotten. Molly was tired almost to
insensibility as to what might be going on, soaked and chilled to
limpness. Sandy got her out of the saddle and into a shallow cave in a
sandy bank. The next thing she knew a fire was leaping and sending light
and warmth into her nook.

She heard Sandy talking to his mare. Between the range rider and his
mount there is always an understanding born of loneliness, close
companionship and mutual appreciation. Sandy was certain that his ponies
understood most of what he said, and they were very sure that Sandy
understood them thoroughly.

"Used yore brains, you did, li'l' old lady," said Sandy. "Sure did.
Can't do much fo' you now. There's a li'l' grain left fo' you an' the
bay, an' we'll dry out these blankets a bit. Can't let you stay long or
we'll git all stiffened up, but Chuck Goodwin, down to Caroca, he knows
hawses an' he's a pal of mine. He'll fix you with a hot mash an', after
that, anything on the menu from alfalfy to sugar. The pair of you. You
bay, you, dern me if you ain't a reg'lar goat! A couple o' pie-eatin',
grain-chewin', antelope-eyed, steel-legged cayuses, that's what you
are!"

Molly listened drowsily to the affection in his voice. It was nice to be
spoken to that way, she thought. Nice to be looked after. Her dad had
been fond of her, but his words had lacked the silk, the caress that
savored the strength, as it did with Sandy. She snuggled into the warm
heat-reflecting sand like a rabbit in its burrow.

"Eat this, Molly, an' we got to be on our way." Sandy was handing her a
cupful of hot savory stew, made for the trip, warmed up hastily, the
best kind of a meal after their strenuous experience, though Sandy
bemoaned its quality.

"Figgered you an' me 'ud eat on the Pullman ter-night," he said. "But
this snack'll do us no harm. We'll git a cup of coffee in Caroca if
there's a chance."

She gulped the reviving food gratefully, strength coming back with the
fuel that gave both warmth and motive power. Soon they were jogging on
down the wide trough of the canyon beneath the white, steady stars,
through scrub oak and chaparral, the air sweet scented with wild spice,
through slopes set with sleeping folded poppies and Mariposa lilies,
past cactus groves, columnar, stately, mystic; the mesa slopes
receding, its great bulk di