are
busy, is it, mademoiselle?" he asked, laughing and showing a white and
perfect set of teeth under a short, dark mustache.

She continued to wring out her wash; but there was now a slight smile on
her lips.

"May I not say who I am?" he asked persuasively. "May I not venture to
speak?"

"_Mon dieu_, monsieur, there is liberty of speech for all in France. That
blackbird might be glad to know your name if you choose to tell him."

"But I ask _your_ permission to speak to _you_!" There seemed to be no
sense of humour in this young man.

She laughed:

"I am not curious to hear who you are!... But if it affords you any relief
to explain to the west wind what your name may be--" She ended with a
disdainful shrug. After a moment she lifted her pretty eyes to
his--lovely, provocative, tormenting eyes. But they were studying the
stranger closely.

He was a powerfully built, dark-skinned young man in the familiar khaki of
the American muleteers, wearing their insignia, their cap, their holster
and belt, and an extra pouch or wallet, loaded evidently with something
heavy.

She said, coolly:

"You must be one of the new Yankee muleteers who came with that beautiful
new herd of mules."

He laughed:

"Yes, I'm an American muleteer. My name is Charles Braun. I came over in
the last transport."

"You know Steek?"

"Who?"

"Steek! Monsieur Steekee Smeete?"

"Sticky Smith?"

"_Mais oui?_"

"I've met him," he replied curtly.

"And Monsieur Keed Glenn?"

"I've met Kid Glenn, too. Why?"

"They are friends of mine--very intimate friends. Of course," she added,
nose up-tilted, "if they are not also _your_ friends, any acquaintance
with me will be very difficult for _you_, Monsieur Braun."

He laughed easily and seated himself on the grass beside her; and, as he
sat down, a metallic clinking sounded in his wallet.

"_Tenez_," she remarked, "you carry old iron and bottles about with you, I
notice."

"Snaffles, curbs and stirrup irons," he replied carelessly. And in the
girl's heart there leaped the swift, fierce flame of certainty in
suspicion.

"Why do you bring all that ironmongery down here?" she inquired, with
frankly childish curiosity, leisurely wringing out her linen.

"A mule got away from the corral. I've been wandering around in the bushes
trying to find him," he explained, so naturally and in such a friendly
voice that she raised her eyes to look again at this young gallant who
lingered here a