Conniston flushed up, suddenly rebellious.  He had not gone to work to be a lacky to Miss Argyl.  He had no desire to lead her horse up to the house for her that she might swing into her saddle, leaving him to follow her at due and respectful distance like a groom.  Why had she singled him out from the others to go with her, to play the part of the menial at her orders?  Was it simply so that she, a Crawford, the daughter of a man who for all that Conniston knew to the contrary had never been out of this little corner of the West and was in the beginning a nobody, might say in the future that she had been served by a Conniston, by the son of William Conniston, of Wall Street—­boasting of it?  If she crooked her finger must he run to do her bidding because her father was taking advantage of his temporary exile to have him work for him at a dollar a day?

“Well?” snapped Brayley, as Conniston stood frowning, making no answer, “Did you think I said she wanted you to-morrow?”

For a moment Conniston hesitated.  Then, scarcely knowing why he did it, he turned upon his heel and went to hang out his wet socks.  Still making no reply to Brayley, he got his hat and strode off to the stable.

Ten minutes later he rode through the circle of trees and to the front of the house, leading Miss Argyl’s pony.  Miss Crawford, in khaki riding-habit, gray gauntlets, and wide, gray hat, already booted and spurred for her ride, was waiting upon the front steps.  As she saw Conniston ride up she nodded gaily to him with a merry “Good morning,” and ran lightly down the steps to meet him.  He answered her a bit stiffly—­with dignity, he would have said—­and swung down from his saddle to help her to mount.  But before he could come to her side she had mounted, and sat watching him as he again got into his saddle.  He saw a vast amusement in her eyes as they omitted no detail of his appearance, missing neither the stubby growth upon cheek and chin, nor the unbuttoned vest with Durham tag and strings protruding, nor the not over-clean chaps, nor the gun at his belt.  And when her eyes rested at last upon his they were smiling, and his stubbornly grave and vacant.

“You are going to ride with me?” she asked, quickly.

He inclined his head.

“Orders from Brayley,” he said, quietly.

“Oh!” And then, flicking her horse across the flank with her quirt, she turned away from the house and down the roadway which led by the pond and along which Conniston had come that day when he first saw the Half Moon.  And Conniston, ten paces behind her, erect, sober-faced, followed her like a well-trained groom.

For a mile they rode at a swift gallop, the girl in front not so much as turning her head to see if he were following, their way leading along the bank of Indian Creek and through the gloomy half-light which sifted down through the mesh of branches of the big trees reaching high overhead.  Then she left the road for a narrow trail which wound through trees and bushes down into the creek-bed and across it, coming out through the trees upon the dry grass-covered plain to the east.  And now again she rode at a swinging gallop, and he followed her.  He knew that twenty miles ahead of them was Rattlesnake Valley.  He began to wonder if that were where she was going.