like the terror she might have expected. The simple truth was
that he had seemed so much a man that it had hurt her to find him
also a wild beast.

Deep in her heart she resented the conviction forced upon her.
Reckless he undoubtedly was, at odds with the law surely, but it
was hard to admit that attractive personality to be the mask of
fiendish cruelty and sinister malice. And yet--the facts spoke
for themselves. He had not even attempted a denial. Still there
was a mystery about him, else how was it possible for two so
distinct personalities to dwell together in the same body.

She hated him with all her lusty young will; not only for what he
was, but also for what she had been disappointed in not finding
him after her first instinctive liking. Yet it was with an odd
little thrill that she ran down again into the coulee where her
prosaic life had found its first real adventure. He might be all
they said, but nothing could wipe out the facts that she had
offered her life to save his, and that he had lent her his body
as a living shield for one exhilarating moment of danger.

As she reached the hill summit beyond the coulee, Helen Messiter
was aware that a rider in ungainly chaps of white wool was
rapidly approaching. He dipped down into the next depression
without seeing her; and when they came face to face at the top of
the rise the result was instantaneous. His pony did an animated
two-step not on the programme. It took one glance at the
diabolical machine, and went up on its hind legs, preliminary to
giving an elaborate exhibition of pitching. The rider indulged in
vivid profanity and plied his quirt vigorously. But the bronco,