But he decided to wait a few more days before going far from camp, because he fancied that the girl rested easier when she could see him near at hand.  And on the first day her languor appeared to leave her in a renewed grip of life.  She awoke stronger from each short slumber; she ate greedily, and she moved about in her bed of boughs; and always, it seemed to Venters, her eyes followed him.  He knew now that her recovery would be rapid.  She talked about the dogs, about the caves, the valley, about how hungry she was, till Venters silenced her, asking her to put off further talk till another time.  She obeyed, but she sat up in her bed, and her eyes roved to and fro, and always back to him.

Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her, and would not permit him to bathe her face and feed her, which actions she performed for herself.  She spoke little, however, and Venters was quick to catch in her the first intimations of thoughtfulness and curiosity and appreciation of her situation.  He left camp and took Whitie out to hunt for rabbits.  Upon his return he was amazed and somewhat anxiously concerned to see his invalid sitting with her back to a corner of the cave and her bare feet swinging out.  Hurriedly he approached, intending to advise her to lie down again, to tell her that perhaps she might overtax her strength.  The sun shone upon her, glinting on the little head with its tangle of bright hair and the small, oval face with its pallor, and dark-blue eyes underlined by dark-blue circles.  She looked at him and he looked at her.  In that exchange of glances he imagined each saw the other in some different guise.  It seemed impossible to Venters that this frail girl could be Oldring’s Masked Rider.  It flashed over him that he had made a mistake which presently she would explain.

“Help me down,” she said.

“But—­are you well enough?” he protested.  “Wait—­a little longer.”

“I’m weak—­dizzy.  But I want to get down.”

He lifted her—­what a light burden now!—­and stood her upright beside him, and supported her as she essayed to walk with halting steps.  She was like a stripling of a boy; the bright, small head scarcely reached his shoulder.  But now, as she clung to his arm, the rider’s costume she wore did not contradict, as it had done at first, his feeling of her femininity.  She might be the famous Masked Rider of the uplands, she might resemble a boy; but her outline, her little hands and feet, her hair, her big eyes and tremulous lips, and especially a something that Venters felt as a subtle essence rather than what he saw, proclaimed her sex.

She soon tired.  He arranged a comfortable seat for her under the spruce that overspread the camp-fire.

“Now tell me—­everything,” she said.

He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discovery of the rustlers in the canyon up to the present moment.

“You shot me—­and now you’ve saved my life?”