Helen had picked up something which she had found near the spring, and
was studying it intently. He came to her side to see what it was. The
thing was a freshly-peeled willow wand, left upright where one end had
been thrust down into the soft earth. The other end had been split;
into the cleft was thrust a single feather from a bluebird's wing.

Helen's eyes looked unusually large and bright. She turned her head,
glancing over her shoulder.

'Some one was here just a minute ago,' she cried softly. 'He was
camping for the night. Something frightened him away. It might have
been the noise we made. Or--what do you think, papa?'

'I never attempt to solve a problem until the necessary data are given
me,' he announced academically.

'Or,' went on Helen, at whose age one does not bother about such
trifles as necessary data, 'he may not have run away at all. He may be
hiding in the bushes, listening to us. There are all kinds of people
in the desert. Don't you remember how the sheriff came to San Juan
just before we left? He was looking for a man who had killed a miner
for his gold dust.'

'You must curb a proclivity for such fanciful trash.' He cleared his
throat for the utterance. He put out his hand and Helen hastily
slipped her own into it. Silently they returned to their own camp
site, the girl carrying in her free hand the wand tipped with the
bluebird feather. Several times they paused and looked back. There
was nothing but the glow of the dwindling fire and the sweep of sand,