n the
west, and their reflection was shimmering over the muddy water below him
so that Billy looked as if he quaffed the richest wine from a golden
cup, as he satisfied his thirst contentedly.

But as the missionary watched the painted water and tried to decide his
course, suddenly his eye caught a bit of white something floating, half
clinging to a twig at the edge of the water, a bit of thin
transparentness, with delicate lacy edge. It startled him in that desert
place much as the jewel in its golden setting in the sand had startled
him that morning.

With an exclamation of surprise he stooped over, picked up the little
wet handkerchief and held it out--dainty, white and fine, and in spite
of its wet condition sending forth its violet breath to the senses of a
man who had been in the wilds of the desert for three years. It spoke of
refinement and culture and a world he had left behind him in the East.

There was a tiny letter embroidered in the corner, but already the light
was growing too dim to read it, and though he held it up and looked
through it and felt the embroidery with his finger-tip he could not be
sure that it was either of the letters that had been engraved on the
whip.

Nevertheless, the little white messenger determined his course. He
searched the edge of the water-hole for hoof prints as well as the dying
light would reveal, then mounted Billy with decision at once and took up
his quest where he had almost abandoned it. He was convinced that a lady
was out alone in the desert somewhere.

It was long past midnight when Billy and the missionary came upon the
pony, high on the mesa, grazing. The animal had evidently felt the need
for food and rest before proceeding further, and was perhaps a little
uneasy about that huddled form in the darkness he had left.

Billy and the pony were soon hobbled and left to feed together while the
missionary, all thought of his own need of rest forgotten, began a
systematic search for the missing rider. He first carefully examined the
pony and saddle. The saddle somehow reminded him of Shag Bunce, but the
pony was a stranger to him; neither could he make out the letter of the
brand in the pale moonlight. However, it might be a new animal, just
purchased and not yet branded--or there might be a thousand
explanations. The thought of Shag Bunce reminded him of the handsome
private car he had seen upon the track that morning. But even if a party
had gone out to ride ho