you had been mounted, you could have
ridden through the bunch and they wouldn't have noticed you."

"Well; we shall have to walk back, apparently." Helen's smile was not
wholly spontaneous.

"To God's country? It's a long way." Ralph was smiling at Helen's
chagrin.

Helen laughed.

"Perhaps you could show us the way?"

"You would better go down to Pedro's ranch and wait. Our supply wagons
will be along shortly, and they will take you to town."

"Young man," Uncle Sid broke in, "you seem to know this country. Is that
strip o' damp sand down there, the Christopher Sawyer?"

"The what?" For a moment, Ralph's face was blank astonishment, then he
burst into a hearty laugh.

"Oh, the Sangre de Christo! Yes."

"They both mean the same thing. Whew! Helen, I've got another idea about
this country. It's a great country for raisin' ideas, if it ain't good
for anything else. It's prolific! It would make a stone man think." He
paused, fanning himself vigorously. "There ain't any use talkin'; it's
great! Soaks thinks full o' fog-water nights, an' then the sun comes out
mornin's and boils 'em. If it wasn't for fogs 'twould roast 'em. I don't
wonder 'Lige Berl gets a broad view o' Providence. You can get all sorts
o' vittles in this country, roasted, boiled and dried. I bet those
critters are carryin' around dried beef on their bones right now."

Ralph's look of amusement gave way to one of inquiry.

"Are you a friend of Elijah Berl?" he asked. "Helen, why don't you
introduce us?"

But Uncle Sid again interrupted.

"Worse than that, young man, worse than that. It's most as bad as blood
relations. Me and 'Lige Berl's folks have been brought up in the same
neighborhood back in New England for ages."

Ralph started to reply to Uncle Sid, but a glance at Helen changed his
mind.

"Let's get down to Pedro's ranch, in the shade. The wagons won't be
along for an hour yet." He tried to walk by Helen's side, but she waited
for Uncle Sid.

The last remnant of the fog had departed; the sun was blazing fiercely.
Toward Ysleta, the air was already shimmering over the sand. By the
ditches and among the vines, was the music of many birds and the
cheerful notes of Bob White.

Half stifled with the choking dust, they scuffled and slid down the
steep trail that led to Pedro's adobe.

Pedro was following, his stolid face stifling his emotions. At the gate,
the vaquero and Winston, drawing their reins over their ponies' heads,
drop