ars that were
beginning to prick through the sky they made their confessions of love
to each other. She told him how she had tried to hate him because of her
brother and could not, and he in turn told her how he had thought Arthur
Ridley was her choice.

"I did think so once--before I knew you," she admitted, soft eyes veiled
beneath long lashes. "Then that day you fought with the bull to save me:
I began to love you then."

They talked most of the night away, but in the hours toward morning he
made her lie down and rest. She protested that she couldn't sleep; she
would far rather sit beside him. But almost as soon as her head touched
the saddle she was asleep.

A little before dawn he went to waken her. For a moment the soft
loveliness of curved cheek and flowing lines touched him profoundly. The
spell of her innocence moved him to reverence. She was still a child,
and she was giving her life into his keeping.

The flush of sleep was still on her wrinkled cheek when she sat up at
his touch.

"The Apaches are climbing up the boulder field," he explained. "I didn't
want to waken you with a shot."

She stood before him in shy, sweet surrender, waiting for him to kiss
her before he took his post. He did.

"It's goin' to be all right," he promised her. "We'll drive 'em back an'
soon yore father will be here with the men."

"I'm not afraid," she said--"not the least littlest bit. But you're not
to expose yourself."

"They can't hit a barn door--never can. But I'll take no chances," he
promised.

During the night the Apaches had stolen far up the boulder bed and found
cover behind quartz slabs which yielded them protection as good as that
of the white man above. They took no chances, since there was plenty of
time to get the imprisoned party without rushing the fort. Nobody knew
they were here. Therefore nobody would come to their rescue. It was
possible that they had food with them, but they could not have much
water. In good time--it might be one sleep, perhaps two, possibly
three--those on the ledge must surrender or die. So the Indians
reasoned, and so the Ranger guessed that they would reason.

Jack lay behind his rocks as patiently as the savages did. Every ten or
fifteen minutes he fired a shot, not so much with the expectation of
hitting one of the enemy as to notify his friends where he was. Above
the canon wall opposite the sun crept up and poured a golden light into
the misty shadows of the gulch. It