“But Mr. Boyle said nothing of this to me,” she said, sitting up.  “Where is he?”

“Already on his way to the next station on one of our horses!  Wanted to catch the down stage and get a new box of samples, I fancy, as the braves had rigged themselves out with his laces and ribbons.  Said he’d lost time enough on this picnic,” returned the young officer, with a laugh.  “Smart business chap; but I hope he didn’t bore you?”

Miss Cantire felt her cheek flush, and bit her lip.  “I found him most kind and considerate, Mr. Ashford,” she said coldly.  “He may have thought the escort could have joined the coach a little earlier, and saved all this; but he was too much of a gentleman to say anything about it to me,” she added dryly, with a slight elevation of her aquiline nose.

Nevertheless Boyle’s last words stung her deeply.  To hurry off, too, without saying “good-by,” or even asking how she slept!  No doubt he had lost time, and was tired of her company, and thought more of his precious samples than of her!  After all, it was like him to rush off for an order!

She was half inclined to call the young officer back and tell him how Boyle had criticised her costume on the road.  But Mr. Ashford was at that time entirely preoccupied with his men around a ledge of rock and bushes some yards from the coach, yet not so far away but that she could hear what they said.  “I’ll swear there was no dead Injin here when we came yesterday!  We searched the whole place—­by daylight, too—­for any sign.  The Injin was killed in his tracks by some one last night.  It’s like Dick Boyle, lieutenant, to have done it, and like him to have said nothin’ to frighten the young lady.  He knows when to keep his mouth shut—­and when to open it.”

Miss Cantire sank back in her corner as the officer turned and approached the coach.  The incident of the past night flashed back upon her—­Mr. Boyle’s long absence, his flushed face, twisted necktie, and enforced cheerfulness.  She was shocked, amazed, discomfited—­and admiring!  And this hero had been sitting opposite to her, silent all the rest of the night!

“Did Mr. Boyle say anything of an Indian attack last night?” asked Ashford.  “Did you hear anything?”

“Only the wolves howling,” said Miss Cantire.  “Mr. Boyle was away twice.”  She was strangely reticent—­in complimentary imitation of her missing hero.

“There’s a dead Indian here who has been killed,” began Ashford.

“Oh, please don’t say anything more, Mr. Ashford,” interrupted the young lady, “but let us get away from this horrid place at once.  Do get the horses in.  I can’t stand it.”

But the horses were already harnessed and mounted, postilion-wise, by the troopers.  The vehicle was ready to start when Miss Cantire called “Stop!”

When Ashford presented himself at the door, the young lady was upon her hands and knees, searching the bottom of the coach.  “Oh, dear!  I’ve lost something.  I must have dropped it on the road,” she said breathlessly, with pink cheeks.  “You must positively wait and let me go back and find it.  I won’t be long.  You know there’s ‘no hurry.’”