“No,” returned the other, gruffly, as though he understood her purpose and put himself on his guard.  “We’ll only be here a few minutes, and it’s a long road ahead.  You must rest.”

Obediently, she sat down on the ground, her back against a tree.

As they lunched, in the dim light of the stars, she said, “May I ask where you are taking me?”

“It’s a long road, Miss Andres.  We’ll be there to-morrow night,” he answered reluctantly.

Again, she ventured timidly; “And is, is—­some one waiting for—­for us, at the end of our journey?”

The man’s voice was kinder as he answered, “no, Miss Andres; there’ll he just you and me, for some time.  And,” he added, “you don’t need to fear me.”

“I am not at all afraid of you,” she returned gently.  “But I am—­” she hesitated—­“I am sorry for you—­that you have to do this.”

The man arose abruptly.  “We must he going.”

For some distance beyond Burnt Pine, they kept to the Laurel Creek trail, toward San Gorgonio; then they turned aside to follow some unmarked way, known only to the man.  When the first soft tints of the day shone in the sky behind the peaks and ridges, while Sibyl’s friends were assembling at the Carleton Ranch in Clear Creek Canyon, and Brian Oakley was directing the day’s search, the girl was following her guide in the wild depths of the mountain wilderness, miles from any trail.  The country was strange to her, but she knew that they were making their way, far above the canyon rim, on the side of the San Bernardino range, toward the distant Cold Water country that opened into the great desert beyond.

As the light grew stronger, Sibyl saw her companion a man of medium height, with powerful shoulders and arms; dressed in khaki, with mountain boots.  Under his arm, as he led the way with a powerful stride that told of almost tireless strength, the girl saw the familiar stock of a Winchester rifle.  Presently he halted, and as he turned, she saw his face.  It was not a bad face.  A heavy beard hid mouth and cheek and throat, but the nose was not coarse or brutal, and the brow was broad and intelligent.  In the brown eyes there was, the girl thought, a look of wistful sadness, as though there were memories that could not be escaped.

“We will have breakfast here, if you please, Miss Andres,” he said gravely.

“I’m so hungry,” she answered, dismounting.  “May I make the coffee?”

He shook his head.  “I’m sorry; but there must be no telltale smoke.  The Ranger and his riders are out by now, as like as not.”

“You seem very familiar with the country,” she said, moving easily toward the rifle which he had leaned against a tree, while he busied himself with the pack of supplies.

“I am,” he answered.  “I have been forced to learn it thoroughly.  By the way, Miss Andres,”—­he added, without turning his head, as he knelt on the ground to take food from the pack,—­“that Winchester will do you no good.  It is not loaded.  I have the shells in my belt.”  He arose, facing her, and throwing open his coat, touched the butt of a Colt forty-five that hung in a shoulder holster under his left armpit.  “This will serve in case quick action is needed, and it is always safely out of your reach, you see.”