harness and retired to the world of good books. She read and she
dreamed and, quite unsuspected, she looked out the window for him.

The man! There is always a man, some man, for every woman who dreams.
Rimrock Jones had come once and gone as quickly, but his absence was
rainbowed with romance. He was out on the desert, far away to the
south, sinking shafts on his claims--their claims. He had discovered a
fortune, but, strong as he was, he had had to accept help from her. He
would succeed, this fierce, ungovernable desert-man; he would win the
world's confidence as he had won her faith by his strength and the bold
look in his eyes. He would finish his discovery work and record all
his claims and then--well, then he would come back.

So she watched for him, furtively, glancing quickly out the window
whenever a horseman passed by; and one day, behold, as she looked up
from her typing, he was there, riding by on his horse! And as he
passed he looked in, under the shadow of his hat, and touched a bag
that was tied behind his saddle. He was more ragged than ever, and one
hand had a bandage around it; but he was back, and he would come. She
abandoned her typewriting--one of those interminable legal papers that
McBain was always leaving on her desk--and stepped out to look down the
street.

The air, warm and soft, was spiced with green odors and the resinous
tang of the greasewood; the ground dove in his tree seemed swooning
with passion as he crooned his throaty, Kwoo, kwoo-o. It was the
breath of spring, but tropical, sense-stealing; it lulled the brain and
bade the heart leap and thrill. This vagabond, this rough horseman
with his pistol and torn clothing and the round sack of ore lashed
behind; who would ever dream that an adventurer like him could make her
forget who she was? But he came from the mine she had helped him to
save and the sack might be heavy with gold. So she watched,
half-concealed, until he stopped at the bank and went striding in with
the bag.

As for Rimrock Jones, he rode by the saloon and went direct to L. W.,
the banker. It was life or death, as far as the Tecolote was
concerned, for his four hundred dollars was gone. That had given him
the powder to shoot out his holes to the ten feet required by law, and
enough actual cash to pay his Mexican locators and make a legal
transfer of the claims; but four hundred dollars will not last a
lifetime and Rimrock Jones was broke. He needed m