door of a cabin
near.

"Don't forget that I'm here when you need me," Boone told Melissy in a low
voice.

"I'll not forget," the girl made answer in a murmur.

The wrinkled face of a Mexican woman appeared presently at a window.
MacQueen jabbered a sentence or two in her language. She looked at Melissy
and answered.

The girl had not lived in Southern Arizona for twenty years without having
a working knowledge of Spanish. Wherefore, she knew that her captor had
ordered his own room prepared for her.

While they waited for this to be made ready MacQueen hummed a snatch of a
popular song. It happened to be a love ditty. Boone ground his teeth and
glared at him, which appeared to amuse the other ruffian immensely.

"Don't stay up on our account," MacQueen suggested presently with a
malicious laugh. "We're not needing a chaperone any to speak of."

The Mexican woman announced that the bedroom was ready and MacQueen
escorted Melissy to the door of the room. He stood aside with mock
gallantry to let her pass.

"Have to lock you in," he apologized airily. "Not that it would do you any
good to escape. We'd have you again inside of twenty-four hours. This bit
of the hills takes a heap of knowing. But we don't want you running away.
You're too tired. So I lock the door and lie down on the porch under your
window. _Adios, senorita._"

Melissy heard the key turn in the lock, and was grateful for the respite
given her by the night. She was glad, too, that Boone was here. She knew
him for a villain, but she hoped he would stand between her and MacQueen
if the latter proved unruly in his attentions. Her guess was that Boone
was jealous of the other--of his authority with the gang to which they
both belonged, and now of his relationship to her. Out of this division
might come hope for her.

So tired was she that, in spite of her alarms, sleep took her almost as
soon as her head touched the pillow. When she awakened the sun was shining
in at her window above the curtain strung across its lower half.

Some one was knocking at the door. When she asked who was there, in a
voice which could not conceal its tremors, the answer came in feminine
tones:

"'Tis I--Rosario Chaves."

The Mexican woman was not communicative, nor did she appear to be
sympathetic. The plight of this girl might have moved even an unresponsive
heart, but Rosario showed a stolid face to her distress. What had to be
said, she said. For the rest, she decl