He saw Bess under the spruces.  Upon her complete recovery of strength she always rose with the dawn.  At the moment she was feeding the quail she had tamed.  And she had begun to tame the mocking-birds.  They fluttered among the branches overhead and some left off their songs to flit down and shyly hop near the twittering quail.  Little gray and white rabbits crouched in the grass, now nibbling, now laying long ears flat and watching the dogs.

Venters’s swift glance took in the brightening valley, and Bess and her pets, and Ring and Whitie.  It swept over all to return again and rest upon the girl.  She had changed.  To the dark trousers and blouse she had added moccasins of her own make, but she no longer resembled a boy.  No eye could have failed to mark the rounded contours of a woman.  The change had been to grace and beauty.  A glint of warm gold gleamed from her hair, and a tint of red shone in the clear dark brown of cheeks.  The haunting sweetness of her lips and eyes, that earlier had been illusive, a promise, had become a living fact.  She fitted harmoniously into that wonderful setting; she was like Surprise Valley—­wild and beautiful.

Venters leaped out of his cave to begin the day.

He had postponed his journey to Cottonwoods until after the passing of the summer rains.  The rains were due soon.  But until their arrival and the necessity for his trip to the village he sequestered in a far corner of mind all thought of peril, of his past life, and almost that of the present.  It was enough to live.  He did not want to know what lay hidden in the dim and distant future.  Surprise Valley had enchanted him.  In this home of the cliff-dwellers there were peace and quiet and solitude, and another thing, wondrous as the golden morning shaft of sunlight, that he dared not ponder over long enough to understand.

The solitude he had hated when alone he had now come to love.  He was assimilating something from this valley of gleams and shadows.  From this strange girl he was assimilating more.

The day at hand resembled many days gone before.  As Venters had no tools with which to build, or to till the terraces, he remained idle.  Beyond the cooking of the simple fare there were no tasks.  And as there were no tasks, there was no system.  He and Bess began one thing, to leave it; to begin another, to leave that; and then do nothing but lie under the spruces and watch the great cloud-sails majestically move along the ramparts, and dream and dream.  The valley was a golden, sunlit world.  It was silent.  The sighing wind and the twittering quail and the singing birds, even the rare and seldom-occurring hollow crack of a sliding weathered stone, only thickened and deepened that insulated silence.

Venters and Bess had vagrant minds.

“Bess, did I tell you about my horse Wrangle?” inquired Venters.

“A hundred times,” she replied.

“Oh, have I?  I’d forgotten.  I want you to see him.  He’ll carry us both.”