pirit of Rufus Hardy, seemed to rise up with the
dawn of that ill-omened day and seize upon the camp at Hidden Water.
It was like a touch of the north wind, which rumples the cat's back,
sets the horses to fighting in the corrals, and makes men mean and
generally contrary. Bill Johnson's hounds were the first to feel the
madness. They left before sun-up, heading for the wooded heights of
the Juate, and led him a weary chase. At the last moment Creede
abandoned the unprofitable working of The Rolls and ordered the
_rodeo_ up onto Bronco Mesa; and Kitty Bonnair, taking advantage of
his preoccupation, quietly gave him the slip at the end of their long
eastern detour, and turned her pinto's head toward the river.

As for Kitty, her will was the wind's will, which changes with the
times and seasons but is accountable to no universal law. Never in her
life had she met a man who could quarrel like Rufus Hardy. Beneath
her eye he was as clay in the hands of the potter; every glance spoke
love, and for her alone. And yet it was something more than a
smouldering resentment which made him avoid her, riding out before the
dawn; more than the tremulous bashfulness which had stayed his hand
when at times he might have taken hers. There was something deep,
hidden, mysterious, lurking in those fawnlike eyes, and it made him
insurgent against her will. It was a secret, hidden from all the
world, which he must yield to her. And then she would forgive him for
all the unhappiness he had caused her and teach him what a thing it is
for a woman to love and be misunderstood. But first--first she must
see him alone; she must burst upon him suddenly, taking his heart by
storm as she had on that first day, and leave the rest to fate. So she
lingered to gather some flowers which nodded among the rocks, the shy
and dainty forget-me-nots which they had picked together at home; and
when Creede was over the first ridge she struck out boldly up a side
canyon, tucking the miniature bouquet into the shadows of her hair.

The southern flank of Bronco Mesa breaks off sharply above the
Salagua, rising slowly by slopes and terraced benches to the heights,
and giving way before the river in a succession of broken ridges.
Along these summits run winding trails, led high to escape the rougher
ground. Urged on by the slashings of her quirt, Pinto galloped
recklessly through this maze of cow paths until as if by magic the
great valley lay before them. There in i