He took it from his pocket; her ingenious uncle’s bullet had torn rather than pierced the cambric.

“I thought so,” she said, gravely examining it, “but I kin mend it as good as new.  I reckon you allow I can’t sew,” she continued, “but I do heaps of mendin’, as the digger squaw and Chinamen we have here do only the coarser work.  I’ll send it back to you, and meanwhiles you keep mine.”

She drew a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him.  To his great surprise it was a delicate one, beautifully embroidered, and utterly incongruous to her station.  The idea that flashed upon him, it is to be feared, showed itself momentarily in his hesitation and embarrassment.

She gave a quick laugh.  “Don’t be frightened.  It’s bought and paid for.  Uncle Harry don’t touch passengers’ fixin’s; that ain’t his style.  You oughter know that.”  Yet in spite of her laugh, he could see the sensitive pout of her lower lip.

“I was only thinking,” he said hurriedly and sympathetically, “that it was too fine for me.  But I will be proud to keep it as a souvenir of you.  It’s not too pretty for that!”

“Uncle gets me these things.  He don’t keer what they cost,” she went on, ignoring the compliment.  “Why, I’ve got awfully fine gowns up there that I only wear when I go to Marysville oncet in a while.”

“Does he take you there?” asked Brice.

“No!” she answered quietly.  “Not”—­a little defiantly—­“that he’s afeard, for they can’t prove anything against him; no man kin swear to him, and thar ain’t an officer that keers to go for him.  But he’s that shy for me he don’t keer to have me mixed with him.”

“But nobody recognizes you?”

“Sometimes—­but I don’t keer for that.”  She cocked her hat a little audaciously, but Brice noticed that her arms afterwards dropped at her side with the same weary gesture he had observed before.  “Whenever I go into shops it’s always ‘Yes, miss,’ and ‘No, miss,’ and ’Certainly, Miss Dimwood.’  Oh, they’re mighty respectful.  I reckon they allow that Snapshot Harry’s rifle carries far.”

Presently she faced him again, for their conversation had been carried on in profile.  There was a critical, searching look in her brown eyes.

“Here I’m talkin’ to you as if you were one”—­Mr. Brice was positive she was going to say “one of the gang,” but she hesitated and concluded, “one of my relations—­like cousin Hiram.”

“I wish you would think of me as being as true a friend,” said the young man earnestly.

She did not reply immediately, but seemed to be examining the distance.  They were not far from the canyon now, and the river bank.  A fringe of buckeyes hid the base of the mountain, which had begun to tower up above them to the invisible stage road overhead.  “I am going to be a real guide to you now,” she said suddenly.  “When we reach that buckeye corner and are out of sight, we will turn into it instead of going through the canyon.  You shall go up the mountain to the stage road, from this side.”