eel and shook hands with the General Manager. The
encounter seemed to him to add the one desirable touch of familiarity to
the night ride. He explained his presence away out on the Quemado Road;
and the General Manager also explained. He had been spending the evening
with friends on a near-by ranch. His family were remaining for the night,
but it had been necessary for him to return to Piedras Negras.

Harboro looked about for his companions, intending to introduce them. But
they were a little too far away to be included comfortably in such a
ceremony. For some reason Runyon had chosen to ride on a few steps.

"How many are you?" inquired the General Manager, with a note of
purposefulness in his voice. "Three? That's good. You get in with me. Tie
your horse behind. Two can ride abreast more comfortably than three, and
you and I can talk. I've never felt so lonesome in my life." He moved over
to one side of the seat, and looked back as if he expected to help in
getting Harboro's horse tied behind the carriage. His invitation did not
seem at all like a command, but it did seem to imply that a refusal would
be out of the question.

The arrangement seemed quite simple and desirable to Harboro. He was not a
practised horseman, and he was beginning to feel the effect of saddle
strain. Moreover, he had realized a dozen times during the past hour that
two could ride easily side by side on the desert road, while a third rider
was continually getting in the way.

He called to Runyon cheerfully: "You two go on ahead--I'm going to ride
the rest of the way in."

"Fine!" called back Runyon. To Runyon everything always seemed precisely
ideal--or at least such was the impression he created.

It became a little cavalcade now, the riders leading the way. Riders and
carriage kept close together for a time. Sylvia remained silent, but she
felt the presence of her companion as a deliciously palpable thing.
Harboro and the General Manager were talking, Harboro's heavy tones
alternating at unequal intervals with the crisp, penetrating voice of the
General Manager--a voice dry with years, but vital nevertheless.

After a time the horses in the carriage broke into a rhythmic trot. In the
darkness Runyon's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "We'll have to have a
little canter, or we'll get run over," he said gayly, and he and Sylvia
gave rein to their horses.

In a very few minutes they had put a distance of more than a hundred yards
betwee