oung man, smiling quietly, had wanted to know why; but after she
had explained that it was because he had enlisted himself in the search
for a horse, adding that in doing so he had conformed with one of the
unwritten laws of the country, he still confessed himself in the dark.
This had been but a moment before, and she now settled herself to
explain more fully.

"A horse is, or was, our most valued property," she began. "I reckon the
past tense is better--though we'll never quite live down our interest in
horses." She smiled across at him. "Long ago," she went on, "in the days
of our Judge Lynch, you know, a stolen horse meant a hanged man--or two
or three--as not infrequently happened. But all that is history now. Yet
the feeling remains. And whenever one of our horses disappears--it is
rare now--we all take it more or less as a personal loss. In your
willingness to help find Pat, therefore, you declare yourself one of
us--and are gladly admitted."

He rode along in silence. "Why was the feeling so intense in the old
days?" he inquired, after a time.

"It was due to physical conditions," she replied--"the geography of the
country. Water-holes were few and very far apart, and to get from one to
another often entailed a journey impossible to a man without a horse. To
steal his horse, therefore, was to deprive him of his sole means of
getting to water--practically to deprive him of his life. If he didn't
die of thirst, which frequently he did, at best it was a very grave
offense. It isn't considered so now--not so much so, at any rate--unless
in the desert wastes to the west of us. Yet the feeling still lurks
within us, and a stolen horse is a matter that concerns the whole
community."

He nodded thoughtfully, but remained silent. Suddenly Helen drew rein.
Before her was a horned toad, peculiarly a part of the desert, blinking
up at them wickedly. He drew rein and followed her eyes.

"A horned toad, isn't it?"

Helen shook her head. "Are you interested in such things?" she inquired.

"In a way--yes," he affirmed, doubtfully. "Though I can't see good
reason for their existence." His eyes twinkled. "Can you?"

Helen was thoughtful a moment. "Well, no," she admitted, finally. "Yet
there must be a good reason. Reptiles must live for some good purpose.
All things do--don't you think?" Then, before he could make a rejoinder,
she went on: "I sometimes feel that these creatures were originally
placed here to encourage ot