thrilled to the indomitable pluck of him. Never had she seen a man who
looked more the vagabond enthroned. His crisp bronze curls and his
superb shoulders were bathed in the sunpour. Not once, since his eyes
had fallen on her, had he looked back to see if his hunters had picked
up the lost trail. He was as much at ease as if his whole thought at
meeting her were the pleasure of the encounter.

"Can you ride?" she demanded.

"I can stick on a hawss if it's plumb gentle. Leastways I've been trying
to for twenty years," he drawled.

Her impatient gesture waved his flippancy aside. "I mean, are you too
much hurt to ride? I'm not going to leave you here like a wounded
coyote. Can you follow me if I lead the way?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She turned. He followed her obediently, but with a ghost of a smile
still flickering on his face.

"Am I your prisoner, Miss Sanderson?" he presently wanted to know.

"I'm not thinking of prisoners just now," she answered shortly, with an
anxious backward glance.

Presently she pulled up and wheeled her horse, so that when he halted
they sat facing each other.

"Let me see your arm," she ordered.