It seemed an interminable time to Hope, although it was in reality less than an hour, before the breathing of the two sleepers assured her that she could leave the tent in safety.

When she stood outside, at the edge of the cut-bank, casting a quick glance over the tents behind, it seemed to her that the moonlight was brighter than ever. It was like a soft hazy day. She made her way toward a dark object on the opposite side of the brush, the same that had attracted Sydney an hour before. This time the small object did not conceal itself, but stood boldly forth.

"I thought you wasn't never comin'," said the boy softly. "It must be 'bout mornin' by now. Seems all night! We'll haf to ride like blazes if we get there now in time! They're over here," he said, leading the way along a winding trail around the side of a wooded hill.

"You're a good boy," said the girl.

"You bet I had the awfulest time gettin' away with your saddle! Every time I'd get up near it that blame cook'd pop his head out of the tent. I like to never got it a tall!"

"But you did get it," said Hope. "I saw that it wasn't there."

"Yep, an' the blanket an' bridle. I've got 'em all cached up here in the trees—horses an' everything, an' your horse is saddled. Somebody rode up while I was waitin' down there on the bank for you, an' I just had to lay low, I tell you!"

"Come, hurry!" whispered the girl. "We've got to kill our horses to-night!"

"Oh, I've got Dave's pinto, so I don't care," replied the child. Then after an instant's pause in which they reached their horses: "You couldn't kill this pinto, nohow!"

Perhaps, thought Hope, it would not kill her horse either. She trusted not, for she loved the animal dearly. But it would be a ride for their very lives if the soldiers were to reach there in time to avert the mischief.

It was a ride for their lives. Ten miles at night over a rough country, through tangled underbrush, and deep matted grass, across stony creek bottoms and rocky hills, ever onward toward Fox Creek at the speed of the wind.

Time and again the horses stumbled to their knees, but the riders might have been a part of them, so securely did they keep their seats. The pinto began to lag, at which the girl stopped for an instant, rode behind, and lashed it furiously with her strong quirt. Then for a time it kept up with the thoroughbred, but could not long continue the speed.

Upon a high knoll the girl reined up, horse and rider waiting, motionless as a carved statue, for the pinto, whose easy, graceful running gait had changed to short rabbit-like leaps.

"Wish I had another string o' horses!" gasped the child, as he at length gained the top of the hill. The girl pointed down the dwindling foot-hills to something small and white in the distance.

"See, there are the tents—a mile away. The soldiers—two troops of them—out on a pleasure trip. I will go on—you take your time, and go back with the men."

"I want to go with you," declared the boy, half crying.

"No," said the girl coaxingly. "You must be their guide, and lead them to the ledge of rocks by the sheep-shed. Think how fine it will be to be a real soldier." Then appalled by a new thought: "Oh, but if you should get tired and couldn't lead them there, how would they ever find the place? What shall I do! I can't wait for them—I must go back ahead. If he shouldn't be there! If something should have warned or detained him! What will I do!"

"Oh, shoot it all, I'll take 'em there all right!" exclaimed the boy, in a very big voice. "Don't you worry. I ain't a bit tired, an' I ain't a-goin' to be, neither!"

Hope reached over and clasped the child in her arms, a sob coming with her breath.

"My little man!" she said softly. Then instructing him to follow her, spurred up her horse to a fresh attempt, and so mad was her ride that she scarcely breathed until she dropped to the ground beside a sentinel who commanded her to halt.

How she roused the camp in the middle of the night was a story Larry O'Hara often delighted to relate. It was Larry who really came to the rescue, who shouldered the responsibility of the action, and led the troops when finally equipped to the scene of the disturbance.

And Hope rode back alone—rode so rapidly that her horse stopped, exhausted, at the foot of the big hill where she had planned the rendezvous with Livingston. There she left the noble animal and climbed up toward the summit, sometimes on her hands and knees, so tired had she become. And the moon still shone brightly along the horizon of the heavens. An hour of brilliancy, she thought, then darkness before the dawn. When she had dragged herself up the mountain side, hope and fear alternately filling her heart, and hastening her footsteps, a sudden weakness came over her as she saw on the summit the stalwart figure of Livingston. Then it seemed to her that the night had been a mere dream, or at least ridiculous. How could such a strong, brave-looking man require a girl's assistance? It was preposterous! She seemed to shrink into herself, in a little cuddled heap among the rocks.

Then a clear whistle sounded on the still air. She knew it was for her. How like a boy, she thought. She tried to answer it, but could not make a sound.

Finally she rose from the rocks and approached him—not the Hope he had expected, but a frightened, trembling girl.

He went to meet her, after the manner of a boy, and clasped the hands she gave him in his own, then kissed each one, and gravely led her to the summit upon which he had been standing.

"This rock is like a great throne," he said, "where we are going to wait our crown of happiness that is to come with the rising of the sun. Is it not so? See, you shall sit upon the throne and I here at your feet. How you are trembling, dear! And those heavy guns, why did you bring them?"

"To protect myself, perhaps, from one who is inclined to be over-bold," she replied, with a little nervous laugh as she settled herself comfortably on the throne-like rock.

"Hope!" he reproved. A red flush dyed the girl's face.

"And are you not the man?" she inquired.

"Tell me then," he said quietly, "who has a better right!"

She drew back into the very recess of the throne, away from his eyes, so convincingly near to hers.

"It's a long climb up this steep mountain," she remarked weariedly.

"And you are tired! I can see it now. But it was good of you to come to meet me here like this, Hope—sweetheart!"

"No, no! you must not talk like that!" cried the girl.

"You know I cannot help it when I am with you. I must tell you over and over that I love you—love you, Hope! Why not, when my heart sings it all the time? And have you not given me the right, dear?"

"Wait! Not now," she said more softly. "Talk about something else—anything," she gasped.

"And must I humor you, my queen," he said. "Look down and let me read in your eyes what I want to find there—then I will talk about anything, everything, until you want to hear what is in my heart!"

"Only daylight can reveal what is in my eyes," she replied. "The light of the moon is unreal, deceiving. Tell me how long you have been here, and where did you leave your horse?"

"You are evading me for some reason. If I did not believe it to be impossible, I should say that I am nervous—and that you are nervous. Can you not be yourself to me now—at this time? Why did you want me to meet you here?"

"You say you love me. Then aren't you content to just sit here in silence beside me?"

"Pardon me, dear, but my love is almost too great for silence. You will admit that." Then with a touch of amusement in his voice: "Tell me, are you angry with me that I should speak so plainly to you?"

"No, no! Of course not—only talk about something else just now. How long have you been here?"

"An eternity," he replied. "Or perhaps longer. I'm not sure. When I left you there at the camp I went directly back to the ranch. The men were all in bed. I went in and got my rifle and started over here. You see we are both armed!" he laughed, taking a Winchester from behind the throne of rocks. She took it from him and examined it minutely.

"A good gun," she remarked, handing it back.

"Then I started over here," he continued, "but had a brief interruption on the road in the shape of the old squaw that lives down in your community—old Mother White Blanket. She held me up in the road—positively held my horse so that I couldn't move while she told a story that would have brought tears to my eyes if I could have understood a word she said, and if my mind hadn't been so full of the most gloriously beautiful girl in the world.

"Finally I had sense enough to give her some money, and after repeating 'yes' innumerable times to her broken questions she finally gave me permission to proceed on my way. I left my horse down at the sheep-shed."

"Couldn't you understand anything she said to you?" questioned Hope eagerly.

"Not much," he admitted, and Hope, with a relieved little air, which he noticed, sank back among the rocks again.

A silence fell over them for a time, then Livingston raised his head and looked at the girl intently.

"I think she was trying to tell me something," he said slowly. "She said it was a warning; but I paid no attention to her delirium. I believe she tried to impress upon me that I was in danger. But I was insanely anxious to meet you. She said something that I had heard before, that you and the twins had driven away the men who attacked and killed poor Fritz that night. And this much more I think I understand now, that the 'old man,' whoever she meant, had given her a beating, that the twins were shut up in the stable or somewhere, and that you were a good girl because you had given her all your school money. That much is clear to me now. And also that she was very anxious that I should get out of the country immediately—which seems to be the sentiment of the majority of the people out here. The old woman is no doubt insane."

"Oh, yes," agreed the girl, "there's not a doubt but that she's plumb locoed! I'm glad you didn't allow anything she said to trouble your mind. She's a regular old beggar. The money was probably what she was after. You can't believe a word she says!"

"Yet she spoke convincingly," mused Livingston. "If I hadn't been so absorbed in the meeting I would have taken more heed of what she said. As it was, I passed her off as a little out of her mind. Of course, I knew you had no hand in that shooting at the corral, had you, Hope?" he asked in a somewhat anxious voice.

"A ridiculous idea for that old squaw to get in her head," replied the girl, leaning in a weary fashion back upon the rock.

Whatever suspicion Livingston had entertained vanished for the moment.

"I am glad," he said. "I don't know exactly why, but I am glad that it isn't so. I shouldn't like to think that you had done such a thing—for me."

"The moon takes a long time to set, don't you think?" she remarked. "It must be almost time for daylight."

"Are you anxious?" he inquired pointedly. She sat erect in dignified silence and did not reply.

"How much longer must you be humored, dear?" he asked, taking both of her hands within his own, and drawing her toward him. "I do not believe that the moonlight will tell lies. Look at me!"

She leaped away from him with all her young strength, and stood upon the throne of rocks, scornfully erect.

"How bad you are—how wicked to talk to me so, to even think that I would care for you one minute! Surely you must realize that I know your past, Lord Livingston! Your past!" she flashed.

"You know my past, and yet you can condemn me," he said, pain and wonderment in his quiet voice. "Perhaps you are right. I haven't always been perfect. But I am not bad—Hope! Not that! I am a man—I try to be, before God. Surely you do not mean what you say, my girl—Hope!"

"You know just what I mean," said Hope, in a voice strained and harsh. "And you know it would be absolutely impossible for me to love you!"

"Then there is nothing more to be said," replied Livingston, turning away from her. "We will not wait for the sunrise. I will go now." He walked from her with long strides.

"Wait," she cried in absolute terror. "Wait! Oh, you wouldn't be so rude as to leave me here—alone!" He stopped short, his back still toward her. "Please come back!" she begged, approaching him, "I should die of fright!" Somehow she reminded herself of Clarice. "Surely you will walk back to camp with me!"

"Yes, certainly, pardon me," he replied huskily.

As they turned, a horse came slowly toward them. Hope gave a little nervous exclamation.

"Your horse," said Livingston, reaching for the bridle. "I thought you walked."

"No—yes," replied the girl. "I walked up the hill. The horse must have followed. We will walk down and lead it. It's too steep to ride down."

But Livingston had stopped short beside the animal, his head bowed, almost upon the saddle.

"Come, shall we go?" asked the girl nervously.

Suddenly the man turned to her, sternness expressed in every line of his figure.

"Where have you been?" he commanded.

"For a ride," she replied, feeling for the first time in her life the desire to scream.

"For a ride! Yes, it must have been a ride! Your horse is nearly dead—listen to his breathing! Crusted with foam from head to foot and still dripping. You have been——"

"For the soldiers. To protect your ranch from the devils who would kill you and get rid of your sheep—this very hour!"

"And you have lured me here, away from danger—away from the side of my men, away from my duty, with all a woman's cowardice! But what of them! You have called me bad! That may be, but I am not bad enough to be grateful to you for doing this, that you may, perhaps, have intended for a kindness! Anything would have been kinder to me than what you have done to-night."

"Where are you going?" she cried from the rocks where she had thrown herself. But he was running, with all his speed, down the mountain side.