"The drunken fool!" he muttered quietly. "A puncher riding for camp.
There will be more up ahead probably."

His little act of heroism drew the man strangely near to Miss Donovan,
and as they hurried along in the silent night she felt that above all
he was dependable, as if, too, she had known him months, aye years,
instead of a scant hour. And in this strange country she needed a
friend.

"Now that I've laid bare my past," he was saying, "don't you think you
might tell me why you are here?"

The girl stiffened. To say that she was from the New York _Star_ would
close many avenues of information to her. No, the thing to do was to
adopt some "stall" that would enable her to idle about as much as she
chose. Then the mad horseman gave her the idea.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I forgot I hadn't mentioned it. I'm assigned by
_Scribbler's Magazine_ to do an article on 'The Old West, Is It Really
Gone?' and, Mr. Westcott, I think I have a lovely start."

A few moments later she thanked Providence for her precaution, for her
companion resumed the story of his mining claim.

"It's mighty funny I haven't heard from that partner. It isn't like
him not to answer my wire. That's why I've waited every night at the
depot. No, it's not like 'Pep,' even if he does take his leisure at
the College Club."