And now suddenly Virginia found that she was giving herself over utterly, unexpectedly to a keen, pulsing joy of life.  She had surrendered into the sheriff’s hands the little leather-case which contained her emergency bottles and instruments; they had left San Juan a couple of hundred yards behind, their horses were galloping; her stirrup struck now and then against Norton’s boot.  John Engle had not been unduly extravagant in praise of the mare Persis; Virginia sensed rather than saw clearly the perfect, beautiful creature which carried her, delighted in the swinging gallop, drew into her soul something of the serene glory of a starlit night on the desert.  The soft thud of shod hoofs upon yielding soil was music to her, mingled as it came with the creak of saddle leather, the jingle of bridle and spur-chains.  She wondered if there had ever been so perfect a night, if she had ever mounted so finely bred a saddle animal.

Far ahead the San Juan mountains lifted their serrated ridge of ebony.  On all other sides the flat-lands stretched out seeming to have no end, suggesting to the fancy that they were kin in vastitude to the clear expanse of the sky.  On all hands little wind-shaped ridges were like crests of long waves in an ocean which had just now been stilled, brooded over by the desert silence and the desert stars.

“I suppose,” said Norton at last, “that it’s up to me to explain.”

“Then begin,” said Virginia, “by telling me where we are going.”

He swung up his arm, pointing.

“Yonder.  To the mountains.  We’ll reach them in about two hours and a half.  Then, in another two hours or so, we’ll come to where Brocky is.  Way up on the flank of Mt.  Temple.  It’s going to be a long, hard climb.  For you, at the end of a tiresome day. . . .”

“How about yourself?” she asked quickly, and he knew that she was smiling at him through the dark.  “Unless you’re made of iron I’m almost inclined to believe that after your friend Brocky I’ll have another patient.  Who is he, by the way?”

“Brocky Lane?  I was going to tell you.  You saw something stirring in the patio at Engle’s?  I had seen it first; it was Ignacio who had slipped in under the wide arch from the gardens at the rear of the house.  He had been sent for me by Tom Cutter, my deputy.  Brocky Lane is foreman of a big cattle-ranch lying just beyond the mountains; he is also working with me and with Cutter, although until I’ve told you nobody knows it but ourselves and John Engle. . . .  Before the night is out you’ll know rather a good deal about what is going on, Miss Page,” he added thoughtfully.

“More than you’d have been willing for me to know if circumstance hadn’t forced your hand?”

“Yes,” he admitted coolly.  “To get anywhere we’ve had to sit tight on the game we’re playing.  But, from the word Cutter brings, poor old Brocky is pretty hard hit, and I couldn’t take any chances with his life even though it means taking chances in another direction.”