It was dark when for the first time she turned her head toward the camp-fire and stared curiously at the figure there.  The appetizing odor of broiling bacon had drawn her attention, and as if no move went unnoticed the man said, without lifting his eyes: 

“Let ’em soak!  Supper’ll be ready directly.  How’d you like your eggs—­if we had any?”

Evidently he expected no reply, for after a chuckle he began to whistle softly, in a peculiarly clear and liquid tone, almost like some bird-call.  He had spoken with an unmistakable Texas drawl; the woman put him down at once for a cowboy.  She settled her back against a boulder and rested.

The pool had become black and mysterious, the sky was studded with stars when he called her, and she laboriously drew on her stockings and boots.  Well back from the fire he had arranged a seat for her, using a saddle-blanket for a covering, and upon this she lowered herself stiffly.  As she did so she took fuller notice of the man, and found his appearance reassuring.

“I suppose you wonder how I—­happen to be here,” she said.

“Now don’t talk ’til you’re rested, miss.  This coffee is strong enough to walk on its hands, and I reckon about two cups of it’ll rastle you into shape.”  As she raised the tin mug to her lips he waved a hand and smiled.  “Drink hearty!” He set a plate of bread and bacon in her lap, then opened a glass jar of jam.  “Here’s the dulces.  I’ve got a sort of sweet tooth in my head.  I reckon you’ll have to make out with this, ’cause I rode in too late to rustle any fresh meat, and the delivery-wagon won’t be ’round before morning.”  So saying, he withdrew to the fire.

The woman ate and drank slowly.  She was too tired to be hungry, and meanwhile the young man squatted upon his heels and watched her through the smoke from a husk cigarette.  It was perhaps fortunate for her peace of mind that she could not correctly interpret his expression, for had she been able to do so she would have realized something of the turmoil into which her presence had thrown him.  He was accustomed to meeting men in unexpected places--even in the desert’s isolation—­but to have a night camp in the chaparral invaded by a young and unescorted woman, to have a foot-sore goddess stumble out of the dark and collapse into his arms, was a unique experience and one calculated to disturb a person of his solitary habits.

“Have you had your supper?” she finally inquired.

“Who, me?  Oh, I’ll eat with the help.”  He smiled, and when his flashing teeth showed white against his leathery tan the woman decided he was not at all bad-looking.  He was very tall and quite lean, with the long legs of a horseman—­this latter feature accentuated by his high-heeled boots and by the short canvas cowboy coat that reached only to his cartridge-belt.  His features she could not well make out, for the fire was little more than a bed of coals, and he fed it, Indian-like, with a twig or two at a time.