is pummel; a second rider with a pack horse
in tow pulling and dragging on the halter rope, the pack horse white
and lame, stopping at every step, the man crunched, huddling fore done,
down in his saddle; then dragging far to the rear, just cresting the
sky line as the other two disappeared, swaying from side to side, a
ragged wreck lying almost forward on his horse's neck; was he being
deserted?

Wayland uttered a jubilant low whistle and tumbled down the sand bank
to his camp kit.

The wind was at lull and the velvet air palpitating as a human pulse.
The after-glow lay on the orange sands cresting all the ridges with
cressets of flame. Wayland was riding bare backed.

"When we sight them, I want you to drop back, sir! The Desert's got
them. They haven't the resistance of dead fish left. If we cut across
this sink, as I make it, we'll save a couple of miles and almost meet
them on the other side of the next ridge."

When Wayland had wakened the old frontiersman, he had babbled
inconsequently about the sea. Mixing brandy with the last of the
sediment water, Wayland got him into the saddle. There were queer
splotches of blood under the skin on the backs of his hands; but when
the brandy relieved his fatigue, he stopped babbling of the sea and
spoke coherently.

"Y' mind the man, whose wife died in the Desert, Wayland?"

His horse stumbled. The Ranger snatched at the bridle and jerked it up.

"Yes," said Wayland.

"Vera noble of the woman; 'tis all right on _her_ record, Wayland; but
what do y' think o' th' man?"

"But in this case, the man took her in to save her life."

"A wasn't thinking of _his_ case," answered the other bluntly. "A was
thinking of _yours_."

The horse stumbled again. This time, the Ranger kept hold of the
bridle rein.

"A didna' just mean t' tell y', Wayland; but A want y' t' know before A
drop back. A saw it in her eyes, Wayland, yon night she went up the
Ridge trail, and oh, man, A was loth to speak: she would cheer y' on in
y'r work, A thought, perhaps--perhaps, the Lord might be playin' an ace
card an' A'd no be trumpin' my partner's tricks; but 'tisn't so;
Wayland, 'tisn't so! This Desert hell proves me wrong. She isna for
y', man; no man can ask a woman to come into a fight that may mean
this! It's a man's job, Wayland; an' the man who would drag a woman
into the sufferin' of it isn't worthy of her . . . isn't the man to do
the job. Oh yes, A know, a woman's love