now and then a
footprint to guide him. He was not one of these geniuses at trailing who
could tell, by a mere footprint, what had been in Miss Allen's mind when
she had passed that way; but for all that it seemed logical that she had
gone up there to see if she could not glimpse the kid--or possibly the
way home.

At the top he did not loiter. He saw, before he reached the height,
where Miss Allen had come down again--and he saw where she had, to avoid
a clump of boulders and a broken ledge, gone too far to one side. He
followed that way. She had descended at an angle, after that, which took
her away from the canyon.

In Montana there is more of daylight after the sun has gone than there
is in some other places. Andy, by hurrying, managed to trail Miss Allen
to the bottom of the peak before it grew really dusky. He knew that she
had been completely lost when she reached the bottom, and had probably
wandered about at random since then. At any rate, there were no tracks
anywhere save her own, so that he felt less anxiety over her safety
than, when he had started out looking for her.

Andy knew these breaks pretty well. He went over a rocky ridge, which
Miss Allen had not tried to cross because to her it seemed exactly in
the opposite direction from where she had started, and so he came to her
horse again. He untied the poor beast and searched for a possible trail
over the ridge to where his own horse waited; and by the time he had
found one and had forced the horse to climb to the top and then descend
into the gulch, the darkness lay heavy upon the hills.

He picketed Miss Allen's horse with his rope', and fashioned a hobble
for his own mount. Then he ate a little of the food he carried and sat
down to rest and smoke and consider how best he could find Miss Allen
or the Kid--or both. He believed Miss Allen to be somewhere not far
away--since she was afoot, and had left her lunch tied to the saddle.
She could not travel far without food.

After a little he climbed back up the ridge to where he had noticed a
patch of brush, and there he started a fire. Not a very large one, but
large enough to be seen for a long distance where the vision was not
blocked by intervening hills. Then he sat down beside it and waited
and listened and tended the fire. It was all that he could do for
the present, and it seemed pitifully little. If she saw the fire, he
believed that she would come; if she did not see it, there was no hope
of