“And then?”

“Then he herded me to town, and I was invited to be the county’s guest.  Not liking the accommodations, I took the first chance and flew the coop.  They missed a knife in my pocket when they searched me, and I chipped the cement away from the window bars, let myself down by the bed linen, and borrowed a cow-pony I found saddled at the edge of town.  So, you see, I’m a hawss thief too, ma’am.”

She could not take it so lightly as he did, even though she did not know that he had barely escaped with his life.  Something about his debonair, smiling hardihood touched her imagination, as did also the virile competence of the man.  If the cool eyes in his weatherbeaten face could be hard as agates, they could also light up with sparkling imps of mischief.  Certainly he was no boy, but the close-cut waves of crisp, reddish hair and the ready smile contributed to an impression of youth that came and went.

“Willie Speed is saddling you a horse.  The one you came on has been turned loose to go back when it wants to.  I’m going to take you home with me,” she told him.

“Well, I’m willing to be kidnapped.”

“I brought your horse Teddy.  If you like, you may ride that, and I’ll take the other.”

“Yore a gentleman, ma’am.  I sure would.”

When Arlie saw with what pleasure the friends met, how Teddy nickered and rubbed his nose up and down his master’s coat and how the Texan put him through his little repertoire of tricks and fed him a lump of sugar from his coat pocket, she was glad she had ridden Teddy instead of her own pony to the meeting.

They took the road without loss of time.  Arlie Dillon knew exactly how to cross this difficult region.  She knew the Cedar Mountain district as a grade teacher knows her arithmetic.  In daylight or in darkness, with or without a trail, she could have traveled almost a bee line to the point she wanted.  Her life had been spent largely in the saddle—­ at least that part of it which had been lived outdoors.  Wherefore she was able to lead her guest by secret trails that wound in and out among the passes and through unsuspected gorges to hazardous descents possible only to goats and cow ponies.  No stranger finding his way in would have stood a chance of getting out again unaided.

Among these peaks lay hidden pockets and caches by hundreds, rock fissures which made the country a very maze to the uninitiated.  The ranger, himself one of the best trailers in Texas, doubted whether he could retrace his steps to the Speed place.

After several hours of travel, they emerged from a gulch to a little valley known as Beaver Dam Park.  The girl pointed out to her companion a narrow brown ribbon that wound through the park.

“There’s the road again.  That’s the last we shall see of it—­ or it will be when we have crossed it.  Once we reach the Twin Buttes that are the gateway to French Cañon you are perfectly safe.  You can see the buttes from here.  No, farther to the right.”