tired. Can't I help you with the pack?"

"No," returned the other, gruffly, as though he understood her purpose and
put himself on his guard. "We'll only be here a few minutes, and it's a
long road ahead. You must rest."

Obediently, she sat down on the ground, her back against a tree.

As they lunched, in the dim light of the stars, she said, "May I ask where
you are taking me?"

"It's a long road, Miss Andres. We'll be there to-morrow night," he
answered reluctantly.

Again, she ventured timidly; "And is, is--some one waiting for--for us, at
the end of our journey?"

The man's voice was kinder as he answered, "no, Miss Andres; there'll he
just you and me, for some time. And," he added, "you don't need to fear
_me_."

"I am not at all afraid of you," she returned gently. "But I am--" she
hesitated--"I am sorry for you--that you have to do this."

The man arose abruptly. "We must he going."

For some distance beyond Burnt Pine, they kept to the Laurel Creek trail,
toward San Gorgonio; then they turned aside to follow some unmarked way,
known only to the man. When the first soft tints of the day shone in the
sky behind the peaks and ridges, while Sibyl's friends were assembling at
the Carleton Ranch in Clear Creek Canyon, and Brian Oakley was directing
the day's search, the girl was following her guide in the wild depths of
the mountain wilderness, miles from any trail. The country was strange to
her, but she knew that they were making their way, far above the canyon
rim, on the side of the San Bernardino range, toward the distant Cold
Water country that opened into the great desert beyond.

As the light grew stronger, Sibyl saw her companion a man of medium
height, with powerful shoulders and arms; dressed in khaki, with mountain
boots. Under his arm, as he led the way with a powerful stride that told
of almost tireless strength, the girl saw the familiar stock of a
Winchester rifle. Presently he halted, and as he turned, she saw his face.
It was not a bad face. A heavy beard hid mouth and cheek and throat, but
the nose was not coarse or brutal, and the brow was broad and intelligent.
In the brown eyes there was, the girl thought, a look of wistful sadness,
as though there were memories that could not be escaped.

"We will have breakfast here, if you please, Miss Andres," he said
gravely.

"I'm so hungry," she answered, dismounting. "May I make the coffee?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry; but there must b