It was characteristic even of her impulsiveness that Helen
Messiter curbed the swift condemnation that leaped to her lips
when she knew that the man sitting beside her was the notorious
bandit of the Shoshone fastnesses. She was not in the least
afraid. A sure instinct told her he was not the kind of a man of
whom a woman need have fear so long as her own anchor held fast.
In good time she meant to let him have her unvarnished opinion of
him, but she did not mean it to be an unconsidered one. Wherefore
she drove the machine forward toward the camelbacked peak he had
indicated, her eyes straight before her, a frown corrugating her
forehead.

For him, having made his dramatic announcement, he seemed content
for the present with silence. He leaned back in the car and
appreciated her with a coolness that just missed impudence.
Certainly her appearance proclaimed her very much worth while. To
dwell on the long lines of her supple young body, the exquisite
throat and chin curve, was a pleasure with a thrill to it. As a
physical creation, a mere innocent young animal, he thought her
perfect; attuned to a fine harmony of grace and color. But it was
the animating vitality of her, the lightness of motion, the fire
and sparkle of expression that gave her the captivating charm she
possessed.

They were two miles nearer the camel-backed peak before he broke
the silence.

"Beats a bronco for getting over the ground. Think I'll have to
get one," he mused aloud.