near the Lazette trail; along a ridge, the crest
of which was hard and barren, making an ideal speedway; they sank into a
depression with sickening suddenness, went out of it with a clatter, and
then went careening over a level until they reached a broken stretch
where speed would mean certain death to both.

Patches was determined to risk it, but suddenly he was pulled in and
forced to face the other way. And what he saw must have made him realize
that his wild race was ended, for he deflated his lungs shrilly, and
relaxed himself for a rest.

Randerson had seen her first. She was sitting on the top of a gigantic
rock not more than fifty feet from him; she was facing him, had evidently
been watching him; and in the clear moonlight he could see that she was
pale and frightened--frightened at him, he knew, fearful that he might
not be a friend.

This impression came to him simultaneously with her cry--shrill with
relief and joy: "Oh, it's Patches! It's Randerson!" And then she suddenly
stiffened and stretched out flat on the top of the rock.

He lifted her down and carried her, marveling at her lightness, to a
clump of bunch-grass near by, and worked, trying to revive her, until she
struggled and sat up. She looked once at him, her eyes wide, her gaze
intent, as though she wanted to be sure that it was really he, and then
she drew a long, quavering breath and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh," she said; "it was horrible!" She uncovered her face and looked up
at him. "Why," she added, "I have been here since before dark! And it
must be after midnight, now!"

"It's about nine. Where's your horse?"

"Gone," she said dolorously. "He fell--over there--and threw me. I saw
Chavis--and Kester--over on the mesa. I thought they would come after me,
and I hurried. Then my pony fell. I've hurt my ankle--and I couldn't
catch him--my pony, I mean; he was too obstinate--I could have killed
him! I couldn't walk, you know--my ankle, and the snakes--and the awful
darkness, and--Oh, Randerson," she ended, with a gulp of gratitude, "I
never was so glad to see you--anybody--in my life!"

"I reckon it _was_ kind of lonesome for you out here alone with the
snakes, an' the dark, an' things."

She was over her scare now, he knew--as he was over his fears for her,
and he grinned with a humor brought on by a revulsion of feeling.

"I reckon mebbe the snakes would have bothered you some," he added, "for
they're natural mean. But I r