Ann had taken to Arizona whole-heartedly and dressed suitably for the new life she was leading.

"I've come to tell you about him, ma'am," he always said, by way of opening their conversations.

Not once again did he call her by her given name, but, though he was always formal, stiffly polite, never allowing an intimation of personal regard to pass his lips, he could not hide the adoration in his eyes. It came through his dogged resolution to hold it back, for he could not keep his gaze from following her every move, every bend of her neck, change of her lips, lift of her arms and shoulders or free, rhythmic movement as she walked.

Ann saw and read that light and, though something in her kept demanding that she blind herself to its significance, that, if necessary to accomplish this, she refuse to give Bayard gaze for gaze, she could no more have hidden the fact of that evidence of his love from her understanding than she could have stopped the quickening of her pulse when he approached.

Nora saw that light, too. She saw the trouble with it in his face; and the realization of what it all meant was like a stab in the breast. He had ceased entirely to laugh and banter with her as he had done before Ann Lytton came to Yavapai; in other days he had always eaten at the Manzanita House when in town, and his humorous chiding had been one of the things in which the girl found simple delight. Now, he came and went without eating; his words to her were few, almost without exception they were of the other woman and, always, his speech was sober.

Mrs. Weyl returned to Yavapai and with her coming Ann found another outlet for the trouble that she fought vainly to repress. To Bayard she had given the fullest detail of her confidence; through Nora she had found a method of forgetting for short successions of hours. But Bayard was a man, and between them was the peculiar barrier which his love had erected; Nora was not the type to which Ann would go for comfort and there, anyhow, was again a dividing circumstance which could not wholly be overcome. It was the emotional receptiveness of an understanding woman that Ann Lytton needed; she wanted to be mothered, to be pitied, to be assured in the terms of her kind and all that she found in the clergyman's wife.

"Why, the poor child!" that good woman had cried when, on her arrival home, her husband had told her of Ann's presence. "And you say her brother has disappeared?"

"From Yavapai, yes; I suspect, though, that Bruce Bayard knows something of where he is and I guess the girl could find him. Something peculiar about it, though. Bruce is worried. And I think he's quite desperately in love."

Forthwith, his wife dropped all other duties and went to Ann. In fifteen minutes the novelty of acquaintance had worn off and in an hour Ann was crying in the motherly arms, while she poured her whole wretched story into the sympathetic ears; that is, all of the story up to the day when Bruce Bayard told her why she must not help him nurse Ned Lytton back to physical and moral health.

To the accompaniment of many there-there's and dear-child's and caresses Ann's outburst of grief spent itself and the distress that had reflected on the countenance of the older woman gave way to an expression of sweet understanding.

"And because of everything, we—Mr. Bayard and I—had thought it best to let people go on thinking that I am ... Ned's sister.... You see, it might be embarrassing to have them talk."

Her look wavered and the face of Mrs. Weyl showed a sudden comprehension. For a breath she sat gazing at the profile of the girl beside her. Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek and said,

"I know, daughter, I know."

That meeting led to daily visits and soon Bruce and Ann were invited to eat their evening meal at the Weyls'. It was a peculiar event, with the self-consciousness of Ann and the rancher putting an effective damper on the conversation. Afterward, when the men sat outside in the twilight, Bruce smoking a cigarette and the minister drawing temperately on an aged cob pipe, the cowman broke a lengthy silence with:

"I'm glad she told your wife ... about bein' his wife.... It relieves me. A thing like that is considerable of a secret to pack around."

The other blew ashes gently from the bowl of his pipe, exposing the ruby coal before he spoke.

"If you ever think there's anything any man can do to help—from listening on up—just let me try, will you, my boy?"

"If any man could help, you'd be the one," was the answer. "But th' other day we sifted this thing down; it's up to th' man himself to be sure that he's ridin' th' open trail an' ain't got anything to cover up.

"But lately so much has happened that I don't feel free, even when I'm out on the valley. I feel, somehow, like I was under fence ... fenced in."

Nora and Ann continued their rides together and one afternoon they had gone to the westward in the direction of Bayard's ranch. It was at Nora's suggestion, after they had agreed that Bruce might be on his way to Yavapai that day. In the distance, they had sighted a rider and after watching him a time saw him wave his hat.

"That's him," the waitress said. "Here's some fine grass; let's give th' horses a bite an' let 'em cool till he comes up."

They waited there then, slouched in their saddles. Ann wanted to talk about something other than Bruce, because, at the mention of his name, that old chill was bound to assert itself in Nora.

"This is a better horse than the one I've had," she commented, stroking the pony's withers and hoping to start talk that would make the interval of waiting one of ease between them.

"Yes," agreed Nora, "but he's got a bad eye. I was afraid of him when we first started out, but he seems to be all right. Bruce had one that looked like him once an' he tried to pitch me off."

"Hold up your head, pony," Ann said, "You'll get us into trouble—"

Her horse, searching grass, had thrust his head under the pony Nora rode and, as Ann pulled on the reins, he responded with the alacrity of a nervous animal, striking the stirrup as he threw up his head. He crouched, backed, half turned and Nora's spur caught under the headstall of his bridle. It was a bridle without a throat-latch, and, at the first jerk, it slipped over his ears, the bit slid from his mouth and clattered on the rocks. Ann's first laugh changed to a cry of fright. Nora, with a jab of her spurs, started to send her pony close against the other, reaching out at the same time with her arms to encircle his head. But she was too late, too slow. The freed horse trotted off a few steps, throwing his nose to one side in curiosity, felt no restraint, broke into a lope, struck back along the road toward town and, surprised, frightened by his unexpected liberty, increased his pace to a panicky run.

Behind, Nora pulled her horse up sharply, knowing that to pursue would only set the runaway at a greater speed.

"Hang on!" she shouted, in a voice shrill with excitement. "Hang on!"

Ann was hanging on with all her strength. She was riding, too, with all the skill at her command; for greater safety she clung to the horn with both hands. She tried to speak to the horse under her, thinking that she might quiet him by words, but the rush of wind whipped the feeble sounds from her lips and their remnants were drowned in the staccatoed drumming of hoofs as the crazed beast, breathing in excited gulps, breasted the hill that led them back toward town, gathering speed with every leap that carried them forward.

Nora, seeing that a runaway was inevitable, cried to her mount and the pony, keyed to flight, sped along behind the other, losing with every length traveled. Tears of fright spilled from the girl's eyes, chilling her cheeks. What might happen was incalculable, she knew.

Then new sounds, above the beat of her horse's hoofs, above the wind in her ears; the sweeping, measured, rolling batter of other hoofs, and Nora turned her head to see Bruce Bayard, mouth set, eyes glowing, brim of his hat plastered back against the crown by his rush, urge his big sorrel horse toward her. He hung low over the fork of his saddle, clear of his seat, tense, yet lithe, and responding to every undulation of the beast that carried him.

From a distance Bayard had seen. He thought at first that Ann had started her pony purposely, but when the animal raced away toward town at such frantic speed, when Ann's hat was whipped from her head, when he heard a distant, faint scream, he knew that no prompting of the woman's had been behind the break. He stretched himself low over Abe's neck and cried aloud, hung in his spurs and fanned the great beast's flanks with his quirt. Never before had the sorrel been called upon so sharply; never before had he felt such a prodding of rowels or lashing of rawhide. Ears back, nose out, limbs flexing and straightening, spurning the roadway with his drumming hoofs, the great animal started in pursuit.

For a mile the road held up hill, following closely the rim of a rise that hung high above the valley to the right. As it rose, the wagon track bent to the left, with the trend of the rim. At the crest of the hill Yavapai would be visible; from there the road, too, could be seen, swinging in a big arc toward the town, which might be reached by travel over a straight line; but that way would lead down an abrupt drop and over footing that was atrocious, strewn with malpais boulders and rutted by many washes.

It was to overtake Ann's runaway before he topped this rise that Bayard whipped his sorrel. He knew what might happen there. The animal that bore the woman was crazed beyond control, beyond his own horse judgment. He was running, and his sole objective was home. Now, he was taking the quickest possible route and the moment he struck the higher country he might leave the road and go straight for Yavapai, plunging down the sharp point that stood three hundred feet above the valley, and making over the rocks with the abandon of a beast that is bred and reared among them. Well enough to run over rough ground at most times, but in this insane going the horse would be heedless of his instinctive caution, sacrificing everything for speed. He might fall before he reached the valley floor, he might lose his footing at any yard between there and town, and a fall in that ragged, volcanic rock, would be a terrible thing for a woman.

Abe responded superbly to the urging. He passed Nora's pony in a shower of gravel. His belly seemed to hang unbelievably close to the ground, his stride lengthened, his tail stood rippling behind him, his feet smote the road as though spitefully and he stretched his white patched nose far out as if he would force his tendons to a performance beyond their actual power. But he could not make it; the task of overcoming that handicap in that distance was beyond the ability of blood and bone.

As he went on, leap by leap, and saw that his gaining was not bringing him beside Ann in time, Bayard commenced to call aloud to the horse under him, and his eyes grew wide with dread.

His fears were well grounded. As though he had planned it long before, as if the whole route of his flight had been preconceived, the black pony swung to the right as he came up on level ground. He cut across the intervening flat and, ears back, hindquarters scrooching far under his body as he changed his gait for the steep drop, he disappeared over the rim.

Bayard cried aloud, the sorrel swung unbidden on the trail of the runaway and twenty yards behind stuck his fore feet stiffly out for the first leap down the rock-littered point. Unspeakable footing, that. Malpais lumps, ranging from the size of an egg to some that weighed tons, were everywhere. Between them sparse grass grew, but in no place was there bare ground the size of a horse's hoof, and for every four lengths they traveled forward, they dropped toward the valley by one!

Ears up now, the sorrel watched his footing anxiously, but the black pony, eyes rolling, put his whole vigor into the running, urged on to even greater efforts by the nearness of the pursuing animal. The fortune that goes with flying bronchos alone kept his feet beneath his body.

Bayard's mouth was open and each time the shock of being thrown forward and down racked his body, the breath was beaten from him. He looked ahead, watching the footing at the bottom, leaving that over which they then passed to his horse, for the most critical moment in a run such as they took is when the horses strike level ground. Then they are apt to go end over end, tripped by the impetus that their rush downhill gives them. He knew that he could not overtake and turn Ann's pony with safety before they reached the bottom. He feared that to come abreast of him might drive the frantic beast to that last effort which would result in an immediate fall. Every instant was precious; every leap filled with potential disaster.

The stallion left off pretense at clean running. He slipped and floundered and scrambled down the point; at times almost sitting on his haunches to keep the rush of his descent within safety and retain control of his balance. Slowly he drew closer to the other animal, crowding a bit to the left to be nearer, grunting with his straining, dividing his attention between preserving caution and making progress.

Ann's hair came down, tumbling about her shoulders, then down her back, and finally brushed the sweated coat of her runaway with its ends. The horrible sensation of falling, of pitching forward helplessly, swept through her vitals each time the animal under her leaped outward and down. It grew to an acute physical pain by its constant repetition. Her face was very white, but almost expressionless. Only her eyes betrayed the fear in her by their darkness, by their strained lids. Her mouth was fixed in determination to play the game to its end. She heard the other horse coming; Bayard's voice had called out to her. That was all she knew. This flight was horrible, tragic; with each move of her horse she feared that it must be the last, that she would be flung into those rocks, yet, somehow, she felt that it would end well. For Bayard was near her.

Not so with the man. As they slid down halfway to the valley, he cried aloud to his horse again, for he saw that along the base of the drop, right at the place toward which they were floundering, a recent storm had gouged a fresh wash. Deep and narrow and rock filled, and, if her horse, unable to stop, unable to turn with any degree of safety whatever went into that ...

Behind them, loosened rocks clattered along, the dust rose, their trail was marked by black blotches where the scant red soil had been turned up. The sorrel's nose reached the black's reeling rump; it stretched to his flank, to the saddle, to his shoulder.... And Ann turned her head quickly, appealingly.

"Careful ... Abe! Once more ... easy ..."

Bayard dropped his reins; he leaned to the left. He scratched with his spurs. His horse leaped powerfully twice, thrice, caution abandoned, risking everything now. The man swung down, his arm encircled Ann's waist, he brought the pressure of his right knee to bear against the saddle, and lifted her clear, a warm, limp weight against his body.

Staggering under the added burden, the stallion gathered himself for a try at the wash which he must either clear or in which he and those he carried were to fall in a tangle. Bayard, lifting the woman high, balanced in his saddle and gathered her closer.

The black floundered in uncertain jumps, throwing his head down in an effort to check his progress, was overcome by his own momentum and leaped recklessly. He misjudged, fell short and with a grunt and a thud and a threshing went down into the bald rocks that floods had piled in the gully.

Abe did not try to stop, to overcome the added impetus that this new weight gave him. He lowered his head in a show of determination, took the last three strides with a swift scramble and leaped.

Bayard thought that they were in the air for seconds. They seemed to float over that wash. Seemed to hang suspended a deliberate instant. Then they came down with a sob wrenched from the horse as his forefeet clawed the far footing for a retaining hold and his hindquarters, the bank crumbling under them, slipped down into the gully. He strained an instant against sliding further back, gathering himself in an agony of effort and floundered safely up!

Bruce became conscious that Ann's arms were about his neck, that her body was close against his. He knew that his limbs quivered, partly from the recent fright, partly from contact with the woman.

Abe staggered forward a few steps, halted and turned to look at his unfortunate brother galloping lamely toward Yavapai.

Except for the animal's breathing, the world was very quiet. For a moment Ann lay in Bayard's embrace; his one arm was about her shoulders, the other hooked behind her knees; then, convulsively, her arms tightened about his neck; she pressed her cheek against his and clung so while their hearts throbbed, one against the other. He had not moved, he refrained from crushing her, from taking her lips with his. It cost him dearly and the effort to resist shot another tremor through his frame. On that she roused.

"I wasn't afraid ... after I knew it was you," she said, raising her head.

"I was, ma'am," he said, soberly, lifting and seating her on Abe's withers.

"I was mighty scared. See what happened to your horse? That ... You'd have been with him in those rocks."

He dismounted, still supporting her in her position.

"You sit in th' saddle, ma'am; I'll walk an' lead Abe. You're ... you're not scared now?"

"A little,"—breathing deeply as he helped her, and, laughing in a strained tone. "I'll ... I'll be frightened later I expect, but I'm not now ... much ... It's you, you keep me from it," she said. "I'm not frightened with you."

"I tried to keep things so you won't have to be, ma'am."

Probably because she was weak, perhaps wholly because of the hot yearning that contact with him had roused in her, Ann swayed down toward him. It was as though she would fall into his arms, as though she herself would stir his repressed desire for her until it overcame his own judgment, and yield to his will there in the brilliant afternoon; as though she were going to him, then, for all time, regardless of everything, caring only for the instant that her lips should be on his. He started forward, flung up one arm as though to catch her; then drew back.

"Don't, ma'am," he begged. "Don't! For the sake ... for your sake, don't."

The woman swallowed and straightened her back as though just coming to the complete realization of what had happened.

"Forgive me," she whispered.

They had not heard Nora riding down to them, so great was their absorption in one another, but at that moment when Ann's head drooped and Bayard's shoulders flexed as from a great fatigue the waitress halted her horse beside them.

"God! I didn't think...."

She had looked at them with the fear that had struck her as she watched the last phase of their descent still gripping her. But in their faces she read that which they both struggled to hide from one another and the light that had been in her eyes went out. She turned her face away from them, looking out at the long afternoon shadows.

"I'll have to be gettin' back," she said, dully, as though unconscious of the words.

"We'll go with you, Nora," the man said, very quietly. "Mrs. Lytton," he pronounced the words distinctly as if to impress himself with their significance—"is the first person who has ever been on Abe but me.... He seems to like it."

Leading the horse by the reins, he began to climb the point back toward the road. In the east the runaway had dwindled to a bobbing fleck.