In after years, Scott was wont to say that he distrusted the trail recommended by Gomez from the moment his horse started to travel it.

“It was one of those trails that didn’t look right—from the first,” he would say with a reminiscent inflection. As a matter of fact, however, the trail looked innocent enough at the first glance, and Scott’s pessimism may be laid partly to the circumstances under which the trip was attempted and partly to the fact that Scott almost always hated to change his mind.

“How long will it be, do you suppose, before you can send back for the others?” queried Polly, as they rode away.

“Well, we ought to make Athens to-night,” replied Scott, thoughtfully. “Tom could start back with our wagon early in the morning. Cochise and this fellow I’m riding, Jasper, could make it.”

“They’ll have to stay at the Sorias’ all night. They’ll be very uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They’re neither of them tenderfeet. They’ll get along.”

“It’ll be very romantic, of course, and very exciting,” sighed Polly.

“Romantic? Why?”

“Well, people have a way of making love to widows,” said Polly, wistfully. “And anybody with half an eye can see that he likes her.”

“Shucks! Hard’s a gentleman; he won’t think he has to be rude to a woman just because he’s left alone with her overnight.”

“It isn’t being rude to ask a woman to marry you if you happen to like her, is it?” demanded Polly, with spirit.

“It is, under some circumstances,” replied Scott, shortly. “You’re pretty romantic, aren’t you, for a grown-up girl?”

“I? Not at all.” Polly flushed, indignantly. “But I’m interested when I see two people that I like falling nicely in love with each other.”

“She’s not in love with him or she’d have married him when she had the chance,” said Scott, authoritatively. “She’s an ambitious woman; what does she want of a man buried in a coal mine?”

“She may have changed. That was a long time ago,” ventured the girl. “And if she cares for him, she might forget her ambition. Women do, sometimes.”

“Yes, in books they do,” replied Scott, moodily. “But I never saw a woman in her class give up anything she really wanted just to marry a poor man. If she did, she’d probably make him miserable afterward, when she was sorry she’d done it.”

They rode a while in silence. Polly was hurt and angry. It occurred to her that Scott’s objection to her romantic imaginings was based on something deeper than just his usual argumentativeness. Perhaps her imagination had misled her in regard to what had been in his eyes the night before. Or rather, not her imagination, but her vanity. It was a disagreeable thought for one who had promised herself to have done forever with that unpleasant trait. Also, down underneath, there was a hurt that had nothing to do with vanity.

Scott rode silently, occupied with his thoughts. He glanced now and then, however, at the slender figure of the girl who rode beside him. She was very pleasing to look upon, with her curly, reddish hair, big dark eyes, delicate features, and smooth tanned skin. Her white hat was pulled down to shade her eyes; her brown coat, trousers and boots wore a jaunty appearance; but it was not altogether of appearances that Scott was thinking.

It is possible with some of us to view the outward and the inward at the same time and to render quite unrelated verdicts. Scott had been conscious of doing this before with Polly Street, but of late somehow the verdicts had begun to agree. He was finding the inward Polly quite as attractive as the outward. Had she changed or had he learned to look deeper, he wondered? He had thought her spoiled and superficial, yet possessing undoubtedly worth-while qualities, such as pluck and honesty—things you cannot be deceived in.

Now he was finding another side to the girl; a something very sweet and lovable. Was he being led away by the eye of man which is troubled by many things, or was the better side of the girl coming to the surface under different conditions? Was she beginning to care a little for him or was she playing with him as she probably had done with the Henderson boy? Scott set his teeth grimly.

There are after all two great classes into which humanity may be divided; those who are living purposefully, in the higher sense of the word, and those who are drifting. The purposeful people may and often do go wrong, but they have at least something to come back to when they right themselves. The drifters, on the other hand, are not only without help for themselves, but have a dreadful way of clutching at the purposeful ones and submerging them as well. The average man or woman who belongs to the former class has rather a horror of the drifter and likes to give him a wide berth. Something of this nature had passed through Scott’s head more than once when he had been attracted by a woman whose outer and inner trappings did not correspond.

It was so easy, however, to like this auburn-headed youngster, who seemed to have gotten over her anger against him and to be beginning to like him. She had such a warm, quick smile; such a caressing look in those serious eyes. She was so natural and easy with him; turned to him so quickly for his approval of what she said or did and took his uncouth criticism so sweetly. It was flattering—yes, that was just the point. Was she sincere, or was she planning to add him to the list of her victims? She would not do that. He was no boy, to be petted and thrown aside.

About this time, they came upon the trail. The little river had followed the road for about a mile and a half, when across on its other bank Scott saw a deep rut leading out of it and continuing in a narrow line or trail so faint as to be easily overlooked. It wound along, lost itself in some chaparral and doubtless became clear again beyond. The chaparral being on a little rise, one could not see beyond it.

“There we are,” he called to the girl, who had fallen a little behind. “Wait a bit till I find a place to get down the bank on this side.”

Polly waited. Scott rode up and down the bank; finally he stopped.

“We’ll have to cross here,” he called. “It’s steep but it’s all right. Follow me,” and both he and his horse disappeared in the river bed. Polly rode up and took a look at the descent.

“I won’t go so far as to say that he picked a nasty one because he’s out of temper, but it looks like it,” she grumbled. “Go on, pony, if he can do it I suppose we can.”

The pony put her two forefeet over the edge of the descent and clung to solidity and sanity with her hind two.

“I don’t blame you. It’s what I’d do if I had four legs and some fool tried to make me slide down a precipice. But we’ve got to go. That man’s got a jaw like Napoleon and there’s no use arguing with him.”

She looked down. Scott had reached the bottom and was smiling back at her. One had to admit that he had the sort of smile which warmed up the atmosphere.

“Want me to come and lead her?” he offered.

“I do not.” Polly gave her mount a little dig with her heel, the tension on the hind legs relaxed, a series of slides and jolts and the descent was made. She found herself in the river with Scott while the horses drank thirstily.

“It was the only place to come down,” he said, penitently.

“Well, I wasn’t scared, it was the horse,” replied Polly, briefly. “You needn’t think that every time we hang back it’s my fault.”

“I’ve known times when it was a sign of good sense to be scared,” retorted Scott, as he turned his horse’s nose toward the upward climb.

“That man can use up more good gray matter trying to dodge paying one a compliment than most men use in thinking up one,” decided Polly.

The way through the chaparral was trying. The trail was very faint, the stiff brush hit one in the face and almost tore one’s clothing. It was necessary for Scott to go first in order to keep the trail, while the girl fell considerably into the rear to escape the blows from the brush which flew back after he had disturbed it. On either side of them, above the brush, rose walls formed by foothills, growing higher as they went. They were evidently going directly into the mountains.

“Of course, we crossed two ranges when we came from Athens to Casa Grande,” reasoned Polly, “and we’ve got to cross them again going back. But this doesn’t look as though we were going through any gaps as we did on the other trail. We’re evidently going straight up. It’s going to be hard on the horses.”

It was hard on the horses. It was getting on in the afternoon and the sun was still very hot. They had seen no water since leaving the little river. The trail had come out of the brush and become a narrow—a very narrow ledge on the side of the mountain, while on the other side one looked down into a ravine deep enough to make one’s head swim if one looked too long. Scott ploughed along ahead, looking back whenever the trail showed a nasty place, ready to jump off and go to the girl’s rescue if necessary.

“She’s a plucky one all right,” he said to himself. “This is no trail for a tenderfoot. I hope we don’t run into anything worse before we get through. How are you coming?” he called back.

They had come to a turn in the trail. Huge boulders poised on the edge of the narrow ledge with that utter disregard for gravity displayed now and then by rocks which look big enough to know better. Scott had dismounted and stood looking into the ravine which had widened into a valley. In front of him, on the narrow turn, it seemed but a step to the tree-tops of the valley below. Further ahead, lay the next range of mountains, higher than the ones through which they were passing. Back of them, the winding trail seemed to flutter like a brown ribbon. Polly hopped down and joined him. Together they drank in the scene.

“It’s too lovely. It hurts,” said the girl, with wet eyes.

“Isn’t it? I didn’t know myself that there was anything around here like this.”

“It’s worth being raided for,” replied Polly. “Let’s stay here a while and keep on looking.”

Scott smiled. “Will it spoil it for you if I eat a sandwich?” he said.

“Not if there’s one for me, too,” laughed the girl. “But I thought you left all the lunch with the others.”

“Not all. I’m too good a woodsman to go on a strange trail with nothing to eat in my saddle-bag. Luckily I didn’t have to leave them the canteen.” They ate the sandwiches—saving a portion for dinner in case they were late reaching Athens—and washed them down with warm water from the canteen.

“Let’s look around the corner before we mount again,” suggested the girl. “I like to know what’s ahead of me.”

“Around the corner” was a slope down into the ravine, more gradual than before and green with stunted grass and mesquite. Here and there a cactus rose gauntly, some in the tall Spanish bayonet with its lovely bloom, and some in the low, dagger-like plant close to the ground. Above them, on the right side rose the rocky wall of the mountain, not altogether sheer in its ascent, but curving in and then out at the top, the upper ridge forming a shelf. Mesquite grew seemingly out of the solid rock.

“Oh, look,” exclaimed the girl. “There’s almost a little cave up there under that shelf! It could be a rustler’s cave if there were any rustlers around.”

“There are more rustlers than there are things to rustle,” remarked her companion.

Standing on the narrow trail, they looked over and down into the valley. It was lonely to look at; not a house, not a living creature, and yet so very beautiful—with a warmth of color and sunshine. Polly did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the scene below. She did not see the look on Scott’s face as he stood beside her, gazing not at the valley but at the purity of her face so near his shoulder.

It was very still. Suddenly a bird flew from one of the bushes, flew across the rock in front of their faces. Polly, her thought broken, turned quickly and surprised the hungry look in Scott’s eyes. Her face flushed and neither spoke. Then, impulsively, he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, Polly, sobbing, clinging to him in a silence full of meaning. As suddenly Scott put her away from him, holding her and looking into her eyes.

“Do you mean it?” he demanded almost angrily. “You’re not playing with me?”

Polly did not answer. She looked up into his eyes, her own still wet. He took her in his arms again.

“I don’t see why!” he said, softly. “There’s nothing about me for you to fall in love with. Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” she lifted her head. “I was sure last night, when you nearly told me—before those Indians came. Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

“Because I knew I’d no business to,” replied Scott, roughly. “I’ve no business to, now, but I’m human and when you stood there with the sun on your hair, and that look on your face, I fell.”

“I’ll stand that way again,” smiled Polly, “if you’ll stop scowling and say nice things to me. It isn’t a criminal offense, Marc Scott, for an unmarried man to fall in love with me. Don’t feel so badly about it.”

“It may not be criminal, but it’s not square,” replied Scott, obstinately. “With you a rich man’s daughter, and——”

“But not an heiress, remember! That makes a difference,” she said, coaxingly.

“Perhaps—anyhow, I’m glad you’re not rich,” said Scott, soberly. “I think I’d fight with a rich wife.”

“My dear Marc, you and I would fight, no matter who had the money. We’re the scrappy kind. But, on the other hand, we’ll always make up again, and that’s what counts. That’s what Joyce Henderson and I couldn’t do. We went for months and months without a quarrel, but when we once had one we couldn’t get over it.”

“You’re sure you’ve forgotten about that chap?”

“Quite. He doesn’t exist.”

Again they were silent, the sun picking out radiant bits of Polly’s hair to light upon as she stood leaning against Scott’s arm, his rough coat rubbing her soft skin.

“It’s a nice old world,” she said, drawing a long breath.

“It’s good enough for me,” he answered as he leaned over and kissed her.

“Do you know, I’ve been wondering for a week whether it was me or Mrs. Van Zandt that you were in love with?” said Polly, with one of her sudden smiles.

“Me? Care for——” Scott’s voice died away in surprise.

“You behaved as though you did. You are always so gentle and pleasant with her.”

“I’m gentle and pleasant with everybody,” declared Scott, stoutly. “I have that kind of disposition.”

“I think you’d better go and get the horses,” suggested Polly. “I’d rather not begin disagreeing with you just yet.”

Scott, chuckling, went back after the horses. Polly, left alone, sat down on a stone and gave a little sigh of contentment.

“To think,” she said, incredulously, “that once I thought I was in love with Joyce Henderson!”

“Polly!” Scott’s voice was sharp. He came around the turn on a trot. “Those cussed horses have cleared out and left us high and dry. I’ve got to go after them.”

“But—I thought horses always went home when they ran off!”

“I think they’ve gone down into the canyon—there may be water down there. Will you sit here while I go after them?”

“I suppose so,” forlornly. “You won’t stay long?”

“Be back in half an hour.” Scott disappeared down the trail. Polly watched him a moment or two and then returned to her resting place. Something of the happiness was gone from her eyes. The accident was ill-timed. It brought a feeling of foreboding most disagreeable in its contrast with her former exaltation. She jumped to her feet determined to do something to take her mind off the ugly thought.

“I’ll climb up and see if that really is a cave up there,” she thought. Fired by this ambition, she started to work her way up the cliff; no easy task and ruinous to riding boots of soft leather. By the time she had discovered this last fact she had covered about one-third of the distance and was crouching beside a protruding rock to get her breath. “It’s rather foolish to tear up a perfectly good pair of riding boots just at the psychological moment when leather is villainously high and I’m on the verge of marrying a poor man. I guess I’ll give up the cave.”

If the view had been remarkable from the trail, it was marvelous from the little eminence which she had reached. She looked and looked, her eyes full of wonder. Away in the distance, a tiny stream fluttered its way over the brown side of the mountain, which the sun seemed to polish until it shone; while on the shadowed side, the pines took on a dark, heavy green, both sombre and beautiful. Below her, on the trail—but what was that? Coming over the top of a hilly rise, a little way below, was a man on a horse—then a second and a third, and finally a line of riders, so long a line that it suggested a regiment!

Polly’s mind worked quickly. There was but one explanation; Angel Gonzales was in the neighborhood, was on his way to rendezvous with Juan Pachuca, and without doubt this was Angel Gonzales, and these were his men. What should she do? They were coming very rapidly, and whatever was done would have to be done instantly. Her first thought was for Scott. He would be taken unaware. If she could only get to him—warn him—so that he could hide in the brush till the men had passed! Breathlessly, she began to climb down the cliff. She was badly frightened, her nerve was shaken and her strength seemed to be leaving her. She found herself slipping and sliding on the rock.

Another look at the riders showed them very near—so near that her courage failed her. In a panic she began to climb again. She must reach the little cave before they saw her. She could not fall into the hands of Angel Gonzales. She caught her breath in little sobs, her heart seemed about to burst, every foot gained meant a desperate effort. She clutched at the tufts of mesquite that grew out of the rock and thanked Providence that her brown suit was so nearly the color of the cliff. Gasping and sobbing, she finally sank behind the mesquite bush which covered the cave.

It was not really a cave, she discovered, but merely a crevice in the cliff, made into a little shelf by the rock which protruded above it, while the bush growing thickly in front of it gave it the look of a cave. It was, however, a shelter, and Polly crouched in it thankfully, breathing with difficulty and keeping one eye on the line of men filing along below her. They were a hard looking lot, clad in all sorts of clothes from uniforms to overalls. They seemed to her inexperienced eye innumerable; they were, perhaps, seventy-five or a hundred.

“And poor—like an army of tramps,” she thought. “Very desperate tramps—oh, why didn’t I keep on and try to warn Marc?”

She could not understand her panic, now that her own danger was over and the men had passed. Marc Scott had called her a brave girl, and she had saved her own skin and let him walk into the trap. She sobbed bitterly. If there was only anything that she could do! To sit there in that awful silence was more than she could bear. She could no longer see the riders, who had turned the curve and were out of sight and sound. Far off in the distance two buzzards circled about over something that was dead or dying. Perhaps it was a man—at the thought the girl rose unsteadily to her feet. She could not stay alone another moment in this horrible place; she would go and find Scott, if she had to brave Angel Gonzales to do it. With a recklessness born of desperation she slid and scuffled down the side of the cliff and ran blindly down the trail.