appen----"

Van had thought that Suvy might resent a stranger's liberties. He
turned to the broncho peculiarly.

"How about it, boy?" he asked the horse gravely. "I want you to stand
for it, savvy?" He looked at the animal inquiringly. How he knew that
Suvy consented was only for him to comprehend. He squared about to
Beth, who was watching with wonder, and something far softer, in her
heart. "Get on," he said. "He was raised as a cradle for babies."

Beth was pale, but she had to be a man. She stepped to the broncho's
side and mounted to the saddle. Suvy trembled in every sinew of his
being.

Van gave him a pat on the neck again, turned his back and started
straight northward. The pony followed at his heels like a dog with a
master he loves.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE NIGHT IN THE DESERT

At ten o'clock that night the moon had not yet risen. Its glow was on
the eastern sky, however, and at length it appeared, a broken orb with
its waning side lopped from its bulk.

Beth was still in the saddle. She was utterly exhausted; she could
scarcely remain in her seat. For more than an hour Van had plodded
onward without even turning to speak. They had talked intermittently,
and he had told her his name. Far off in the dimness of the desert
level--the floor of a second mighty valley--a lone coyote began his
dismal howling. Beth, on the horse, felt a chill go down her spine.
Van seemed not to hear. The howl was repeated from time to time
intermittently, like the wail of a ghost, forever lost to hope.

When the moon at last shone fairly on the broncho and the girl, Van
cast a glance at her face. He was startled. The young rider looked so
much like Beth--and looked so utterly tired!

Van halted, and so did the pony. The man looked up at his companion.

"You're in no fit condition to go on," he said. "What's the use of our
trying to make it? To camp right here is as good as going on all
night, which don't suit my legs worth a cent."

Beth was wearied almost to collapse. But--to camp out here--all
night!--they two! Aside from the terrors that had crept to her soul at
sound of the distant coyote, this present aspect of the situation was
appalling. Indeed, she began to see that whether they went on or
remained, she must spend the night in this man's company.

She was almost too tired to care how such a thing would appear. He
thought her a man--it had been inescapable--there was nothing she could