“You will be careful of yourself?” she begged.  “For your sake.”

“But remember that man,” she whispered, looking about for Texas Smith.

“He is not going.  Come, my own darling, don’t frighten yourself.  Think of my poor comrades.”

“I will pray for them and for you all the time you are gone.  But oh, Ralph, there is one thing.  I must tell you.  I am so afraid.  I did wrong to let Coronado see how much I care for you.  I am afraid—­”

He seemed to understand her.  “It isn’t possible,” he murmured.  Then, after eyeing her gravely for a moment, he asked, “I may be always sure of you?  Oh yes!  I knew it.  But Coronado?  Well, it isn’t possible that he would try to commit a treble murder.  Nobody abandons starving men in a desert.  Well, I must go.  I must save these men.  After that we will think of these other things.  Good-by, my darling.”

The sultry glow of sunset had died out of the west, and the radiance of a full moon was climbing up the heavens in the east when Thurstane set off on his pilgrimage of mercy.  Clara watched him as long as the twilight would let her see him, and then sat down with drooped face, like a flower which has lost the sun.  If any one spoke to her, she answered tardily and not always to the purpose.  She was fulfilling her promise; she was praying for Thurstane and the men whom he had gone to save; that is, she was praying when her mind did not wander into reveries of terror.  After a time she started up with the thought, “Where is Texas Smith?” He was not visible, and neither was Coronado.  Suspicious of some evil intrigue, she set out in search of them, made the circuit of the fires, and then wandered into the willow thickets.  Amid the underwood, hastening toward the wagons, she met Coronado.

“Ah!” he started.  “Is that you, my little cousin?  You are as terrible in the dark as an Apache.”

“Coronado, where is your hunter?” she asked with a beating heart.

“I don’t know.  I have been looking for him.  My dear cousin, what do you want?”

“Coronado, I will tell you the truth.  That man is a murderer.  I know it.”

Coronado just took the time to draw one long breath, and then replied with sublime effrontery, “I fear so.  I learn that he has told horrible stories about himself.  Well, to tell the truth, I have discharged him.”

“Oh, Coronado!” gasped Clara, not knowing whether to believe him or not.

“Shall I confess to you,” he continued, “that I suspect him of having weakened that towline so as to send our friend down the San Juan?”

“He never went near the boat,” heroically answered Clara, at the same time wishing she could see Coronado’s face.

“Of course not.  He probably hired some one.  I fear our rancheros are none too good to be bribed.  I will confess to you, my cousin, that ever since that day I have been watching Smith.”

“Oh, Coronado!” repeated Clara.  She was beginning to believe this prodigious liar, and to be all the more alarmed because she did believe him.  “So you have sent him away?  I am so glad.  Oh, Coronado, I thank you.  But help me look for him now.  I want to know if he is in camp.”