“I don’t think so,” she cried desperately.

“You’ve got to be sure.  I don’t want you else.”

“Yes—­yes!” she cried eagerly.  “Don’t rush me.”

“Take all the time you need.  You can’t be any too sure to suit me.”

“I—­I don’t think it will be yes,” she told him shyly.

“I’m betting it will,” he said confidently.  “And now, little girl, it’s time we started.  You’ll ride your Carnegie horse and I’ll walk.”

Her eyes dilated, for this brought to her mind something she had forgotten.  “My roan!  What do you think has become of it?”

He shook his head, preferring not to guess aloud.  As he helped her to the saddle his eyes fell on a stain of red running from the wrist of her gauntlet.

“You’ve hurt your hand,” he cried.

“It must have been when I caught at the cactus.”

Gently he slipped off the glove.  Cruel thorns had torn the skin in a dozen places.  He drew the little spikes out one by one.  Phyllis winced, but did not cry out.  After he had removed the last of them he tied her handkerchief neatly round the wounds and drew on the gauntlet again.  It had been only a small service, nothing at all compared to the great one he had just rendered, but somehow it had tightened his hold on her.  She wondered whether she would have to marry Buck Weaver no matter what she really wanted to do.

With her left hand she guided Baldy, while Buck strode beside, never wavering from the easy, powerful stride that was the expression of his sinuous strength.

“Were you ever tired in your life?” she asked once, with a little sigh of fatigue.

He stopped in his stride, full of self-reproach.  “Now, ain’t that like me!  Pluggin’ ahead, and never thinking about how played out you are.  We’ll rest here under these cottonwoods.”

He lifted her down, for she was already very stiff and sore from her adventure.  An outdoor life had given her a supple strength and a wiry endurance, of which her slender frame furnished no indication, but the reaction from the strain was upon her.  To Buck she looked pathetically wan and exhausted.  He put her down under a tree and arranged her saddle for a pillow.  Again the girl felt a net was being wound round her, that she belonged to him and could not escape.  Nor was she sure that she wanted to get away from his possessive energy.  In the pleasant sun glow she fell asleep, without any intention of doing so.  Two hours later she opened her eyes.

Looking round, she saw Weaver lying flat on his back fifty yards away.

“I’ve been asleep,” she called.

He leaped to his feet and walked across the sand to her.

“I suspected it,” he said with a smile.

“I feel like a new woman now.”

“Like one of them suffragettes?”

“That isn’t quite what I meant,” she smiled.  “I’m ready to start.”

Half an hour later they reached her home.  It was close to supper time, but Weaver would not stay.