“Do you want my money?” she asked wearily.

“I’ll take that to begin with.”

She tossed him her purse.  “There should be seventy dollars there.  May I have a drink now?”

“Not yet, my dear.  First you got to come up to me and put your arms round—­”

He broke off with a curse, for she was flying toward the little circle of cottonwoods some forty yards away.  She had caught a glimpse of the water-hole and was speeding for it.

“Come back here,” he called, and in a rage let fly a bullet after her.

She paid no heed, did not stop till she reached the spring and threw herself down full length to drink, to lave her burnt face, to drink again of the alkali brackish water that trickled down her throat like nectar incomparably delicious.

She was just rising to her feet when Struve hobbled up.

“Don’t you think you can play with me, missie.  When I give the word you stop in your tracks, and when I say ‘Jump!’ step lively.”

She did not answer.  Her head was lifted in a listening attitude, as if to catch some sound that came faintly to her from a distance.

“You’re mine, my beauty, to do with as I please, and don’t you forget it.”

She did not hear him.  Her ears were attuned to voices floating to her across the desert.  Of course she was beginning to wander in her mind.  She knew that.  There could be no other human beings in this sea of loneliness.  They were alone; just they two, the degenerate ruffian and his victim.  Still, it was strange.  She certainly had imagined the murmur of people talking.  It must be the beginning of delirium.

“Do you hear me?” screamed Struve, striking her on the cheek with his fist.  “I’m your master and you’re my squaw.”

She did not cringe as he had expected, nor did she show fight.  Indeed the knowledge of the blow seemed scarcely to have penetrated her mental penumbra.  She still had that strange waiting aspect, but her eyes were beginning to light with new-born hope.  Something in her manner shook the man’s confidence; a dawning fear swept away his bluster.  He, too, was now listening intently.

Again the low murmur, beyond a possibility of doubt.  Both of them caught it.  The girl opened her throat in a loud cry for help.  An answering shout came back clear and strong.  Struve wheeled and started up the arroyo, bending in and out among the cactus till he disappeared over the brow.

Two horsemen burst into sight, galloping down the steep trail at breakneck speed, flinging down a small avalanche of shale with them.  One of them caught sight of the girl, drew up so short that his horse slid to its haunches, and leaped from the saddle in a cloud of dust.

He ran toward her, and she to him, hands out to meet her rescuer.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?  I’ve waited so long,” she cried pathetically, as his arms went about her.

“You poor lamb!  Thank God we’re in time!” was all he could say.