“Jack—­is it—­really you?” she asked.

He answered with a kiss.

She slipped out of his arms breathless and scarlet.  “Tell me all—­”

“There’s much to tell, but not before you kiss me.  It has been more than a year.”

“Only a year!  Have I been gone only a year?”

“Yes, a year.  But it’s past now.  Kiss me, Mescal.  One kiss will pay for that long year, though it broke my heart.”

Shyly she raised her hands to his shoulders and put her lips to his.  “Yes, you’ve found me, Jack, thank God! just in time!”

“Mescal!  What’s wrong?  Aren’t you well?”

“Pretty well.  But if you had not come soon I should have starved.”

“Starved?  Let me get my saddle-bags—­I have bread and meat.”

“Wait.  I’m not so hungry now.  I mean very soon I should not have had any food at all.”

“But your peon—­the dumb Indian?  Surely he could find something to eat.  What of him?  Where is he?”

“My peon is dead.  He has been dead for months, I don’t know how many.”

“Dead!  What was the matter with him?”

“I never knew.  I found him dead one morning and I buried him in the sand.”

Mescal led Hare under the cottonwoods and pointed to the Indian’s grave, now green with grass.  Farther on in a circle of trees stood a little hogan skilfully constructed out of brush; the edge of a red blanket peeped from the door; a burnt-out fire smoked on a stone fireplace, and blackened earthen vessels lay near.  The white seeds of the cottonwoods were flying light as feathers; plum-trees were pink in blossom; there were vines twining all about; through the openings in the foliage shone the blue of sky and red of cliff.  Patches of blossoming Bowers were here and there lit to brilliance by golden shafts of sunlight.  The twitter of birds and hum of bees were almost drowned in the soft roar of water.

“Is that the Colorado I hear?” asked Hare.

“No, that’s Thunder River.  The Colorado is farther down in the Grand Canyon.”

“Farther down!  Mescal, I must have come a mile from the rim.  Where are we?”

“We are almost at the Colorado, and directly under the head of Coconina.  We can see the mountain from the break in the valley below.”

“Come sit by me here under this tree.  Tell me—­how did you ever get here?”

Then Mescal told him how the peon had led her on a long trail from Bitter Seeps, how they had camped at desert waterholes, and on the fourth day descended to Thunder River.

“I was quite happy at first.  It’s always summer down here.  There were rabbits, birds, beaver, and fruit—­we had enough to eat.  I explored the valley with Wolf or rode Noddle up and down the canyon.  Then my peon died, and I had to shift for myself.  There came a time when the beaver left the valley, and Wolf and I had to make a rabbit serve for days.  I knew