It happens that I know what things are beyond me and those that
are within the scope of my powers. One thing that I can do is cook.
And I have camped before now, if you please."

So, when Jim had brought her firewood and had placed the various
articles of their larder handy for her and had offered his services
with jack-knife to open a can or hack through a bit of beef, he stood
back and fully enjoyed the sight of Betty making breakfast. He enjoyed
the prettiness of her in her odd costume of blouse, scarlet sash and
knickerbockers, silk stockings and high heeled slippers; the atmosphere
of intimacy which hovered over them, distilled in a measure from the
magic of a camp fire, certainly aided and abetted by the homey
arrangement of Betty's brown hair; the aroma of coffee beginning to
bubble in a milk tin; the fragrance of an inviting stew in the other
tin wherein were mingled _frijoles_ and "jerky." Ruiz Rios might lurk
around the next spur of the mountain; Zoraida might be inciting her
hirelings to fresh endeavor; much danger might be watching by the trail
which in time they would have to follow--but here and now, for the few
minutes at least, there was more of quiet enjoyment in their retreat
than of discomfort or of fear of the future.

"Let's go camping some time," said Jim abruptly. "Just you and me.
We'll take a pack horse; we'll load him to the guards with the proper
sort of rations; we'll strike out into the heart of the California
sierra--where there are fine forests and little lakes and lonely trails
and peace over all of it."

Betty looked at him curiously, then away swiftly.

"Breakfast is ready," she announced.

He sipped at his coffee absently; his eyes, looking past Betty, saw
into a hidden, cliff-rimmed valley in those other, fresher mountains
further north, glimpsed vistas down narrow trails between tall pines
and cedars and firs, fancied a lodge made of boughs on the shore of a
little blue lake. He'd like to show Betty this camping spot; he'd like
to bring in for her a string of gleaming trout; he'd like to lie on his
side under the cliffs and just watch her. He had whittled two sticks
for spoons; he ate his stew with his and forgot to talk.

And Betty, watching him covertly, wondered astutely if over the first
meal she had cooked for him Jim Kendric wasn't readjusting his ancient
ideas of woman. For some hidden reason, or for no reason at all, her
silence was as deep as his.

After brea