hiding place, one of those, perhaps, that camp gossip said was
inaccessible to any save a border hawk. Joan knew that only an
Indian could follow the tortuous and rocky trail by which Kells had
brought her in. She would never be tracked there by her own people.

The long ride had left her hot, dusty, scratched, with tangled hair
and torn habit. She went over to her saddle, which Kells had removed
from her pony, and, opening the saddlebag, she took inventory of her
possessions. They were few enough, but now, in view of an unexpected
and enforced sojourn in the wilds, beyond all calculation of value.
And they included towel, soap, toothbrush, mirror and comb and
brush, a red scarf, and gloves. It occurred to her how seldom she
carried that bag on her saddle, and, thinking back, referred the
fact to accident, and then with honest amusement owned that the
motive might have been also a little vanity. Taking the bag, she
went to a flat stone by the brook and, rolling up her sleeves,
proceeded to improve her appearance. With deft fingers she rebraided
her hair and arranged it as she had worn it when only sixteen. Then,
resolutely, she got up and crossed over to where Kells was
unpacking.

"I'll help you get supper," she said.

He was on his knees in the midst of a jumble of camp duffle that had
been hastily thrown together. He looked up at her--from her shapely,
strong, brown arms to the face she had rubbed rosy.

"Say, but you're a pretty girl!"

He said it enthusiastically, in unstinted admiration, without the