d himself to wonder in all seriousness if
she had powers above a mere woman's as she had a character set apart.

And, after all that happened, he must return to her! He, Jim Kendric,
must leave Twisty Barlow, wounded, and Bruce West, ruined, and return
to Zoraida Castlemar who had set her brand upon both them. His
twenty-four-hour leave would expire at daybreak. He had meant to spend
the evening with Bruce and then to ride back during the night. Now,
for the first time, he realized that the raiders had set him on foot.
The twenty miles to the Montezuma ranch would have to be walked.

"And I'd better be on my way," he decided promptly. It did not enter
his head that he had an excuse to offer for making a tardy appearance.
He had pledged his word, and, while it was humanly possible, he would
keep it. Even were it impossible it would have been Jim Kendric's way
to try. And now he was not sorry for an excuse for leaving early. He
could do nothing for Bruce; what must be said between him and Twisty
Barlow could come later.

It was then, while he was returning to the house that he saw a steady
light shining out in the fields. He stopped, at first fearing that a
fresh fire was breaking out.

"Not thieves but cursed marauders," he named the crowd to which Bruce
had already lost so heavily. "They've fired the dry grass."

But while he watched it the light did not alter, neither flaring up nor
dying down, burning steadily like a lamp. When after two or three
minutes he observed this he left the house and walked out into the
field, keeping to the shadows when he could, watchful and suspicious.
Thus presently he came to see what it was: a lantern tied from a low
limb of a tree. Below the lantern he saw a dark object; it moved and
he heard the clink of a bridle chain. Again he went forward, puzzled
and curious. He made out that the saddle was empty; he could see no
one near. A man might be hiding behind the bole of the oak or might
even be above in the branches. Inwardly Kendric prayed that he was.
He was ready for a meeting with any loiterer of Zoraida's following.
His pulses stirred as he thought that it might even be Rios or Escobar.

But though he circled the tree and peered long into the shadows among
the branches, he still saw no one. At last he came close to the
tethered horse. It was his own, the sorrel El Rey he had ridden here
this morning, saddled and bridled, spurs slung to the horn. The
lanter