Lost Pueblo

by

Zane Grey

CHAPTER 1

Janey Endicott did not see anything of Arizona until morning. The train had crossed the state line after dark. New Mexico, however, with its bleak plains and rugged black ranges, its lonely reaches, had stirred in her quite new sensations. Her father had just knocked upon her door, awakening her at an unusual hour. She had leaped at her father's casual proposal to take a little trip West with him, but it had begun to have a rather interesting significance to her. And Janey was not so sure how she was going to take it.

They had arrived at Flagerstown late in the night, and Janey had gone to bed tired out. Upon awakening this morning, she was surprised at an absence of her usual languor. She appeared wide awake in a moment. The sun streamed in at the window, very bright and golden; and the air that blew in with it was sharp and cold.

"Gee! I thought someone said it was spring-time," said Janey, as she quickly got into slippers and dressing gown. Then she looked out of her window. Evidently the little hotel was situated on the outskirts of town. She saw a few scattered houses on each side, among the pine trees. There were rugged gray rocks, covered with vines and brush. The pines grew thicker and merged into a dark green forest. In the distance showed white peaks against the deep blue of sky. Janey had an inkling that she was going to like this adventure.

She did not care to admit it, but, although she was only twenty years old, she had found a good deal to pall on her at home in the East. Serious thought appeared to be something she generally shunned; yet to her, now and then, it came involuntarily.

While she dressed she pondered upon the situation. She had never been West before. After college there had been European travel, and then the usual round of golf, motoring, dancing, with all that went with them. She was well aware of her father's dissatisfaction with her generation. Despite his attitude he had seldom interfered with her ways of being happy. This trip had a peculiar slant, now that she scrutinized it closely. They were to meet a young archaeologist here in Flagerstown, and probably arrange to have him take them to the canyon and other scenic places. Janey had become acquainted with him in New York, where he had been lecturing on the prehistoric ruins of the Southwest. Phillip Randolph had struck Janey as being different from the young men she played about with, but insofar as her charms were concerned he was as susceptible as the rest. Randolph had never betrayed his feelings by word or action. He had seemed a manly, quiet sort of chap, college bred, but somewhat old-fashioned in his ways, and absorbed in his research work. Janey had liked him too well to let him see much of her. Not until she and her father had been out West did he mention that he expected to meet Randolph. Then she was reminded that her father had been quite taken with the young archaeologist. It amused Janey.

"Dad might have something up his sleeve," she soliloquized. "I just don't quite get him lately."

Janey found him in the comfortable sitting room, reading a newspaper before an open fireplace. He was a well-preserved man of sixty, handsome and clean-cut of face, a typical New Yorker, keen and worldly, yet of kindly aspect.

"Good morning, Janey," he said, folding his paper and smiling up at her. "I see you've dispensed with at least some of your make-up. You look great."

"I confess I feel great," responded Janey, frankly. "Must be this Arizona air. Lead me to some lamb chops, Dad."

At breakfast Janey caught a twinkle in her father's fine eyes. He was pleased that she appeared hungry and not inclined to find fault with the food and drink served. Janey felt he had more on his mind than merely giving her a good time. It might well be that he was testing a theory of his own relative to the reaction of an oversophisticated young woman to the still primitive West.

"Randolph sent word that he could not meet us here," remarked her father. "We will motor out to a place called Mormon Canyon. It's a trading post, I believe. Randolph will be there."

"We'll ride into the desert?" asked Janey, with enthusiasm.

"Nearly a hundred miles. I daresay it will be a ride you'll remember. Janey, will you wear that flimsy dress?"

"Surely. I have my coat in case it's cold."

"Very well. Better pack at once. I've ordered a car."

"Are there any stores in this burg? I want to buy several things."

"Yes. Some very nice stores. But hurry, my dear. I'm eager to start."

When Janey went out to do her shopping, she certainly wished she had worn her coat. The air was nipping, and the wind whipped dust in her face. Flagerstown appeared a dead little town. She shuddered at the idea of living there. Limiting her errands to one store, she hurried back toward the hotel. She encountered Indians who despite their white man's garb were picturesque and thrilling to her. She noted that they regarded her with interest. Then she saw a Mexican boy leading several beautiful spirited horses. There was nothing else in her short walk that attracted her attention.

In a short time she was packed and ready for her father when he came to her room. He acted more like a boy than her erstwhile staid and quiet parent. The car was waiting outside.

"We're off," declared Mr. Endicott with an air of finality. And Janey bit her tongue to keep from retorting that he could speak for himself.

Soon they left the town behind and entered a forest of stately pines, growing far apart over brown-matted, slow-rising ground. The fragrance was similar to that of Eastern forests, except that it had a dry, sweet quality new to Janey. Here and there the road crossed open ranch country, from which snow-clad peaks were visible. Janey wondered why Easterners raved so about the Alps when the West possessed such mountains as these. She was sorry when she could see them no more. Her father talked a good deal about this part of Arizona, and seemed to be well informed.

"Say, Dad, have you been out here before?" she asked.

"No. Randolph talked about the country. He loves it. No wonder!"

Janey made no reply, and that perhaps was more of a compliment than she usually paid places. The road climbed, but neither the steepness nor the roughness of it caused the driver any concern. Soon the car, entering thicker forest, dark and cool, reached the summit of a ridge and started down a gradual descent, where the timber thinned out, and in a couple of miles failed on the edge of the desert.

It was Janey Endicott's first intimate sight of any desert. She felt strongly moved; yet whether it was in awe or wonder or reverence or fear, or a little of each combined, she could not tell. The sum of every extended view she had ever seen, in her whole life, could not compare with the tremendous open space before her. First it was silver and gray, dotted with little green trees, then it sloped off yellow and red, and ended in a great hollow of many hues, out of which dim finde shapes climbed.

"That must be the Painted Desert, if I remember Randolph correctly," said her father. "It is magnificent. Nothing in Europe like it! And Randolph told me that this is nothing compared to the Utah country two hundred miles north."

"Let's go, Dad," replied Janey, dreamily.

From that time on the ride grew in absorbing interest for Janey, until she was no longer conscious of reflection about her impressions. The Little Colorado River, the vast promontory of Kishlipi, the giant steppes up to the Badlands, the weird and sinister rock formations stretching on to an awful blue gulf which was the Grand Canyon; the wondrous flat tablelands called mesas by the driver, the descent into glaring sandy Moencopi Wash, and up again, higher than ever, and on and on over leagues of desert, with black ranges beckoning--these successive stages of the ride claimed Janey's attention as had no other scenery in her experience.

She was not ready for the trading post. They had reached it too soon for her. It looked like one of the blocks of red rock they had passed so frequently. But near at hand it began to look more like a habitation. All about was sand, yellow and red and gray; and on the curved knife-edged ridge-crests it was blowing like silver smoke. There were patches of green below the trading post, and beneath them a wide hollow, where columns of dust or sand whirled across the barren waste. Beyond rose white-whorled cliffs, wonderful to see, and above them, far away, the black fringed top of an endless mesa.

"What do you think of it, Janey?" asked Endicott curiously.

"Now I understand why Phillip Randolph seemed such a square peg in a round hole, as my friends called him," replied Janey, enigmatically.

"Humph! They don't know him very well," declared her father.

They were met at the door of the post by the trader, John Bennet. He was carrying some Navajo rugs. His sombrero was tipped over one ear. He had a weather-beaten face, and was a middle-aged man of medium height, grizzled and desert-worn, with eyes that showed kindliness and good humor.

"Wal, heah you are," he welcomed them, throwing down the rugs. "Reckon we wasn't expectin' you so soon. Get down an' come in."

Janey entered the door, into what appeared to be a colorful and spacious living room. Here she encountered a large woman with sleeves rolled up showing brown and capable arms. She beamed upon Janey and bade her make herself "to home." Then she joined the others outside, leaving Janey alone.

She looked around with interest. The broad window seat, with windows opening to the desert view, appealed strongly to Janey. Removing coat and hat she sat down to rest and take stock of things.

The long room contained many Indian rugs, some of which adorned the walls. On a table lay scattered silver-ornamented belts, hatbands and bridles. Over the wide fireplace mantel hung Indian plaques, and on top of the bookcase were articles of Indian design, beaded, and some primitive pottery. A burned-out fire smoldered on the hearth.

At this point Mrs. Bennet came in, accompanied by the trader, and Endicott, and a tall young man in khaki. Janey had seen him somewhere. Indeed, it was Phillip Randolph. Brown-faced, roughly garbed, he fitted the desert environment decidedly to Janey's taste.

"Miss Endicott, I reckon you don't need no introduction to Phil here," announced Mrs. Bennet, with a keen glance running over Janey's short French frock, sheer stockings and high-heeled shoes.

"Phil?...Oh, you mean Mr. Randolph." The young man bowed rather stiffly and stepped toward her.

"I hope you remember me, Miss Endicott," he said.

"I do, Mr. Randolph," replied Janey, graciously, offering her hand.

"It's good to see you out here in my West. I really never believed you'd come, though your father vowed he'd fetch you."

"Well, Dad succeeded, though I can't understand it," rejoined Janey, laughing.

"Mr. Endicott, did you-all have a nice trip out?" asked Mrs. Bennet.

"I did. My daughter's rather doubtful yet, I fear."

"Now, isn't that too bad, Miss Endicott," sympathized the genial woman. "I saw right off how pale you are. You'll get your health back in this desert."

"My health!" exclaimed Janey, almost indignantly. "Why, I'm absurdly healthy. I've been picked for a health poster. It's my father who is ailing."

"Excuse me, Miss," said Mrs. Bennet, embarrassed. "You see your father looks so strong--"

"It isn't his body that's weak, Mrs. Bennet," interrupted Janey. "It's his mind."

Here Phillip came to the rescue, as Janey remembered he had always done in New York.

"Mrs. Bennet, it's not a question of ill health for anybody," he explained. "Mr. Endicott was an old friend of my father's. I met him in New York. He wanted to come out West and get Miss Janey as far away from civilization as possible, to--"

"I'll say he's done it," interrupted Janey. "It must be a real knockout to live here if you're crazy about miles of nothing but sand, rocks and sky, and you've committed some crime or other and want to hide."

Mrs. Bennet tried to control her amazement.

"Mr. Endicott, your rooms are not quite ready. Please wait here a little....Pa, see that them lazy cowboys fetch in the baggage."

"Phil, where are the boys, anyhow?" asked Bennet, as his spouse bustled out.

"They were lounging in the shade when the car came up. Then they disappeared like jack rabbits in the sage. Sure they're going to be funny. I'll help you find them."

"Folks, make yourselves comfortable," invited Bennet, and left the room with the archaeologist.

Mr. Endicott sauntered over to Janey and gazed disapprovingly down upon her.

"Janey, I don't mind you calling me crazy or poking fun at me. But please don't extend that to my young friend Randolph. His father was the finest man I ever knew, and Phillip is pretty much like him....Janey, you'll have to put your best foot forward if you want to appear well to Phillip Randolph. He's not likely to see the sophisticated type with a microscope out here. In New York he had you buffaloed. You couldn't like him because you didn't understand him."

"Darling Father," replied Janey, smiling tantalizingly up at him. "Your name may be Elijah, but you're no prophet. I liked your young friend well enough to let him alone. But that was in New York where there are a million men. I don't know about out here. Probably he'll bore me to extinction. Can't you see he's as dry as the dust of this desert? He's living two thousand years behind the times. Fancy digging in the earth for things of the past. Well, he might dig up a jeweled corncob pipe and discover there were glamour girls in the old Aztec days."

"Janey, you're nothing if not incorrigible," returned Mr. Endicott in despair.

"Dad, I'm your daughter. I don't know whether you've brought me up poorly or I've neglected you. But the fact is all our educators and scientists claim the parents of the present generation are responsible for our demerits."

"Janey, I'm responsible for your conduct out here, at all events," declared Mr. Endicott, forcefully.

"Oh, you are! Well, my dearest Dad, I'm here all right--or else I've been drinking."

"Janey, there'll be no more of this drinking business."

"Dad, you've got me figured wrong. I admit my crowd hit the booze pretty strong. But I never drank. Honest, Dad."

"Janey, I don't know whether to believe you or not. But I've seen you smoke."

"Oh, well, that's different. Smoking isn't very clean, but it's a fashionable vice, and restful at least."

"How about all your men?" queried Endicott, evidently emboldened for the minute. "Lord! When I think of the men you've made idiots! Take that last one--the young Valentino who brags of being engaged to you."

Janey laughed merrily. "Dad, do you think that's nice? Bert Durland is just too sweet for words; also he dances divinely."

"Durland is a slick little article. Like his social ladder-climbing mama. But I'll see that he doesn't dance or climb into your inheritance."

"To think you separated me from him!" cried Janey, pretending tragic pathos.

A slim young Indian girl entered. She was dark and pretty.

"Meester, you room ees ready."

"Thank you," said Endicott, picking up his coat and hat. "Janey, you've got me right. I did separate you from Durland. Also from a lot of other fortune hunters. That's why you're out in this desert for a spell. Except for Bennet and Randolph, whom you can't flirt with, there's not a man within a hundred miles."

Janey eyed her retreating parent, and replied demurely, "Yes, kind, sweet, thoughtful father."

Endicott went out with the Indian maid, and at the same moment a young man entered the other door, carrying a valise in each hand. He had a ruddy face, and was carelessly dressed in striped woolen shirt, overalls and top boots. He wore a big dusty sombrero.

When he spotted Janey his eyes popped wide open and he dropped one valise, then the other.

"Was you addressin' me, Miss?" he asked, ecstatically.

"Not then. I was speaking to my father. He just left the room....You--sort of took me by surprise."

"Shore, you tuk my wind."

"Do you live here?" asked Janey, with interest. This trading post might not turn out so badly after all.

"Shore do," replied the young man, grinning.

"Are you Mrs. Bennet's son?"

"Naw. Jest a plain no-good cowboy."

"My very first cowboy!" murmured Janey. "Aw, Miss! I'm shore honored. I'll be yore first anythin'. Ain't you the Endicott girl we're expectin'?"

"Yes, I'm Janey Endicott."

"An' I'm Mohave. The boys call me that after the Mohave Desert which ain't got no beginnin' or end."

As Janey broke into laughter another young man entered, also carrying a grip in each hand. He was overdressed, like a motion-picture cowboy, and he had a swarthy, dark face. He gave Janey a warm smile.

"Cowboy, reckon you can put them bags down an' get back for more," blandly said Mohave.

"Buenas dias, Senorita," greeted this one, dropping the bags and sweeping the floor with his sombrero. Janey was quick to see that Mohave suddenly remembered to remove his own wide headgear.

"Same to you," replied Janey, smiling as teasingly as possible.

"Miss Endicott, this here's Diego," said Mohave, apologetically. "He's a Mexican. He seen a Western movie once an' ain't never got over it. He's been dressed up all day waitin' for you."

"I'm tremendously flattered," returned Janey.

"Mees, thees are your bags I carry. I peeck them ut weeth your name on."

"Now there, Buffalo Bill, you mustn't flatter me any more," replied Janey, coquettishly.

"Oh, Mees! Senor Buffalo Beel you call me. I have seen heem in the movies."

Here he drew two guns with an exaggerated motion-picture-drama style. "A-ha! Veelian! Een my power at las'! A-ha! Your time ees come. I keel you!"

He brandished both guns in Janey's face. In alarm she slipped off the window seat to dodge behind a table.

"Diego, you locoed cowpuncher, get on the job," ordered Mohave, forcibly. "Ray is comin'."

Diego evidently had respect for Mohave. Hurriedly sheathing his guns, and picking up his sombrero he recovered the two valises. Meanwhile Janey emerged from behind the table.

"Mees, Diego will act for you again," he announced grandly.

"Ye-es. Thanks. But please make it someplace where I can dodge," replied Janey.

Diego left the room, and Mohave, taking up his load, turned to Janey.

"Miss Endicott, don't trust Diego, or any of these other hombres. An' perticular, don't ride their horses. You'll shore get throwed an' mebbe killed. But my pet horse is shore gentle. I'll take you ridin' tomorrow."

"I'd love to go with you," returned Janey.

Then Mohave made swift tracks after Diego, just in time to escape being seen by a third cowboy, who entered from outside, carrying a trunk as if it had been a feather. He set it down. He was bareheaded, a blond young man, not bad looking, in size alone guaranteed to command respect. And his costume struck a balance between that of Diego and Mohave.

Janey gazed at him and exclaimed, "Well! Tarzan in cowboy boots, no less."

Ray stared, then walked in a circle to see whom she meant. But as there was no other man present he seemed to divine the truth, and approached her straightaway.

"Wal, for Gawd's sake!" he broke out, in slow sepulchral tones.

"Oh, yes, indeed, it's you I mean," returned Janey, all smiles. "I'll bet when your horse is tired you pick him up and carry him right home."

"Wal, for Gawd's sake!" ejaculated Ray, exactly as before.

"Are there any more verses to that song?"

"Wal--for Gawd's sake!"

"Third and last--I hope."

"First time I ever seen an angel or heered one talk," he declared.

"Please don't call me an angel. Angels are good. I'm not. I'm wild. That's why I've been dragged out West. Ask Dad, he knows. Say, that reminds me. I'm dying for a smoke. Dad's old-fashioned and I don't carry them when he's around. Could you give me a cigarette?"

Ray merely stared.

"Please, handsome boy! Just one little cigarette."

"Ain't got nothin' but the makin's," he finally ejaculated.

"Thanks. That'll do," replied Janey, receiving the little tobacco pouch he handed her.

It fascinated Ray to see Janey roll her own. He was so absorbed that he failed to note the entrance of a fourth cowboy, who was burdened with hatboxes and more grips. He was the handsomest of the lot. With his fine intent eyes straight ahead, not noticing Janey, he crossed the room and went into the hallway. Janey had watched him pass in a surprise that grew into pique. He had never looked once at her. He would have to pay for that slight.

"Wal! Yore shore some pert little dogie," remarked Ray, lighting a match for her.

"Dogie!...Say, Mr. Cowboy, explain what you mean!"

"A dogie is a calf or a colt that ain't got no mother."

"Where did you learn anything about me?" asked Janey, a bit wary.

"Shore any kid with a ma couldn't ever roll a cigarette an' smoke it like you do."

"Indeed! Ray, are you a desert preacher?" queried Janey, distantly.

"Sorry, Miss. Shore didn't mean to hurt yore feelin's. But it kind of got me--seein' you smoke like thet. Yore so damn--'scuse me, I mean yore so shore pretty that it goes agin my grain to see you up to dance-hall tricks."

"You don't like women to smoke?" returned Janey, curiously.

"Perticular, I don't like to see you smokin'."

"Then I won't," decided Janey, and walking to the fireplace she threw the cigarette down.

"Jes--jes 'cause I don't like you to smoke?" ejaculated Ray, rapturously.

"Jes 'cause you don't like me to."

"An' you'll forgive me fer talkin' like I did?"

"Surely."

"I'm askin' you to prove thet."

"How?"

"Go ridin' with me tomorrow," suggested Ray, breathlessly. "You can ride my pet hoss. He's shore gentle. You don't wanna ride any of these hombres, horses. You might get throwed an' hurt. They're shore mean."

"I'd love to go with you," responded Janey, dreamily.

At this moment the handsome cowboy returned, and was again crossing the room, straight-eyed and hurried, when Ray hailed him. "Rustle now, you cowboy. Fetch them bags in."

Janey had taken a few steps forward. The cowboy glided round the table to avoid encountering her, and then bolted out of the room.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Janey. "You'd think I was Medusa. He didn't see me...He simply didn't see me!...Who is he?"

"Thet's Zoroaster. Mormon cowpuncher. Fine fellar, but awful scared of women. Ain't never seen any but Mormon girls. He'll never look at you!"

"Oh, he won't!" replied Janey, with a threat in her voice.

"Shore not. An' don't you ever talk to him. He'd like as not drop dead. Last year a girl from the East asked him to dance, an' he run right out of the hall. Didn't show up for a week."

"It's an awful chance to take, but that boy needs reforming," declared Janey. Ray stared at her a moment before he took to his defense--"Wal, for Gawd's sake!"

Mohave came in with a sly grin on his ruddy face.

"Ray, Mr. Bennet is askin' fer you," he said.

"Where?" asked Ray, in both doubt and disgust.

"He's gone out to the post and wants you pronto."

Ray went out grumbling and Mohave approached Janey with evident profound satisfaction.

"Looks like you're goin' to be as popular as stickin' paper with flies," he said, meaningly.

"Mohave, after flies take to flypaper they struggle to get away. That's not a pretty compliment."

"Say! Did you know you called me Mohave?" he asked, in amazement.

Janey feigned surprise. "Did I?"

Then she was electrified at the entrance of still another cowboy.

"S-s-scuse me, f-f-folks, w-w-w-where's Ray?"

"Tay-Tay, he's gone to the post an' I wish you wouldn't."

"Like h-h-hell he has," interrupted Tay-Tay.

"Bennet is lookin' fer him."

"L-l-last I saw of Bennet he was runnin' the car in the shed."

"Good. Then he won't be right back an' Ray'll have to find him."

Janey stood fascinated by Tay-Tay's struggle with words.

"B-b-b-bad I'd say! For you an' Ray! The cows are yore job, an' yore both locoed b-by this d-d-dame. It's g-g-goner rain like hell!"

Janey turned to Mohave. "Perhaps you b-b-better go....Well, I hope to die if I'm not stuttering too!"

Here Diego, filling the doorway, struck a dramatic pose and fixed sentimental eyes on Janey.

"Por ultimo! Senorita mia!" he said eloquently.

"Too many languages around here for me," returned Janey.

"Here's Diego to give a hand. I was jest tellin' Miss Endicott how you could ride. An' she's shore ailin' to see you round up the cows."

Diego's look of fiery pride slowly changed to one of suspicion; and Tay-Tay stared from him to Mohave. The next thing to happen was Ray shoving Diego into the room, and stalking after him, to transfix Mohave with menacing eyes.

"Wal, for Gawd's sake! So you was jest gettin' me out of the way. Said Bennet was lookin' for me. Wal, cowboy, he ain't."

"Don't you accuse me of no sneakin' trick," replied Mohave, flaring up.

"Bennet was askin' fer you. He's plumb forgot. He's gettin' absent-minded, you know. Ask Tay-Tay here if Bennet didn't send him lookin' fer you to fetch in the cows."

"S-s-smatter with you, Mohave?" retorted Tay-Tay. "B-B-Bennet didn't send me nowhere. I c-c-ame fer myself."

"Tay-Tay, yore tongue's not only more tied since you seen Miss Endicott, but yore mind is wuss," complained Mohave.

Then followed a silence which Janey hugely enjoyed. What a time she was going to have! Wouldn't she turn the tables on her tricky father? Mohave backed away from the threatening Ray. The other boys edged nearer to Janey, who thought it wise to retreat to the window seat. The suspense of the moment was broken by the entrance of Zoroaster, who swung two pairs of boxing gloves in his hands. Behind him entered the Indian maid.

"Mees, your room ees ready," she announced, and retired.

Janey was in no hurry to follow. Something might happen here too good to miss.

"Thar you are!" announced Zoroaster, indicating Tay-Tay. He might be a Mormon, but he was certainly good to look at, decided Janey.

"W-w-what y-y-you w-w-want me for?" stuttered Tay-Tay, rebelliously.

"Yore time's come. I've been layin' fer you. An' right now we can have it out," returned the grim Mormon.

"W-w-why right now more'n another time?" asked Tay-Tay.

"Wal," spoke up Ray, "I reckon a blind man could see thet. Lope on outdoors, Tay, an' get yours."

Diego showed his white teeth in a gleaming smile.

"Geeve the gloves to Ray an' Mohave. They're lookeen for trouble."

"It's me who's lookin' fer trouble, an' after I'm through with Tay I'll take any of you on. Savvy?"

"B-b-but if I w-w-want to q-q-quit in the m-m-middle of a round I won't be able to say s-s-s-stop," replied Tay-Tay.

"Aw, yore jest plain backin' out before this lady....Wal, who of you will put them on?"

Zoroaster looked from one to the other. They all appeared to have become absentminded. Janey had an inspiration, and rose, radiant, from the window seat.

"I will, Mr. Zoroaster," she said.

The Mormon cowboy's face turned redder than his hair. He was dumbfounded, and plainly fought to keep from running. But Janey's smile chained him. If she saw in the boxing bout an opportunity to get acquainted with Zoroaster, he evidently saw one to outdo the other zealous suitors for her favor. Awkwardly he thrust a pair of gloves at her.

"All right, Miss. You're shore showin' these hombres up. But I'll be careful not to hurt you."

Janey was athletic and, as it happened, was the best boxer in her club. Pretending unfamiliarity with boxing gloves she begged someone to help her put them on. All save Ray rushed to her assistance.

He stared, open-mouthed, and finally ejaculated, "Wal, for Gawd's sake!"

"There! Now, Mr. Zoroaster, give me a few pointers, please," suggested Janey, winningly.

"It's easy, Miss," he said, extending his gloved hands. "Keep one foot forward, an' lead with your left hand. Keep yore eyes on my gloves an' duck."

Janey affected practice while Zoroaster circled her. Plainly he was not a scientific boxer; and Janey, who had had many a bout with the club instructor, saw some fun ahead. Suddenly she ceased her pretense and went for Zoroaster, swift and light as a cat, and grasped at once that she could hit him when and where she pleased.

"Ride 'em, cowgirl. Oh, my!" cried Mohave.

"Thet's placin' one, Miss," shouted Ray, in great glee.

"S-s-s-soak him fer me," stuttered Tay-Tay, in delight.

"Senorita, you ees one grande boxer," declared Diego, dramatically.

Zoroaster's fear and amazement helped to put him at Janey's mercy. She danced around the transfixed Mormon, raining taps upon his handsome nose. Finally she struck him smartly with her left, and followed that up with as hard a right swing as she could muster. It landed square on Zoroaster's nose and all but upset him.

The cowboys, instead of roaring, seemed suddenly paralyzed. Janey, glowing and panting, turned to see what was wrong. Her father stood in the doorway, horrified, completely robbed of the power of speech. Zoroaster bolted out of the front door, followed by his cowboy comrades.

Janey's mirth was not one whit lessened by the sight of her father's face. Gayly she ran to him, extending the gloves to be untied.

"Weren't they something? I love 'em all, and that handsome red-headed devil best. Oh, bless you, Dad. I'll stay here forever!"

CHAPTER 2

From that moment events multiplied. Janey could not keep track of them. She was having the time of her life. And every now and then it burst upon her what really innocent fun it was, compared to the high pressure of life in the East.

She had disrupted the even tenor of the trading post. Bennet averred that something must be done about it. His cowboys had gone crazy. If they remembered their work it was to desert it or do it wrong. They manufactured the most ridiculous excuses to ride away from the ranch, when it chanced that Janey was out riding. When she was at home they each and every one fell victim to all the ailments under the sun.

Janey saw very little of Randolph during her first days at the post. He always left before she got up in the morning, and returned from his excavating work late in the afternoon. She met him, of course, at dinner, when they all sat at a long table, and in the living room afterward, but never alone. Janey was quite aware of the humor with which he regarded her flirtation with the cowboys. She did not like his attitude, and wasted a thought now and then as to how she would punish him.

On the whole, however, she was too happy to even remember her father's reason for fetching her out to the desert. The actual reasons for her peculiar happiness she had not yet analyzed.

It was all so new. She rode for hours every day, sometimes alone, which was a difficult thing to maneuver--and often with her father, and the cowboys. The weather was glorious; the desert strangely, increasingly impelling; the blue sky and white clouds, the vivid colors and magnificent formations of the rock walls had some effect she was loath to acknowledge.

When had she been so hungry and tired at nightfall? She went to bed very early because everybody did so; and she slept as never before. Her skin began to take on a golden brown, and she gained weight. Both facts secretly pleased her. The pace at home had kept her pale and thin. Janey gazed in actual amazement and delight at the face that smiled back at her from the mirror. Once she mused, "I'll say this Painted Desert has got the beauty shops beaten all hollow."

Her father had asked her several times to ride over to Sagi Canyon, where Randolph was excavating. But Janey had pretended indifference as to his movements. As a matter of fact, she was curious to see what his work was like--what in the world could make a young man prefer digging in the dust to her company? There was another reason why she would not go, and it was because the more she saw of Phillip Randolph and heard about him from the cowboys and Bennet--who were outspoken in their praise the better she liked him and the more she resented liking him.

For the present, however, the cowboys were more than sufficient for Janey. They were an endless source of interest, fun and wholesome admiration.

In ten days not a single one of them had attempted to hold her hand, let alone kiss her. Janey would rather have liked them, one and all, to hold her hand; and she would not have run very far to keep from being kissed. But it began to dawn upon her that despite an utter prostration of each cowboy at her feet, so to speak, there was never even a hint of familiarity, such as was natural as breathing to the young men of her set.

First it struck Janey as amusing. Then she sought to break it down. And before two weeks were up she began to take serious thought of something she had not supposed possible to the genus Homo, young or old, East or West.

Janey did not care to be forced to delve into introspection, to perplex herself with the problem of modern youth. She had had quite enough of that back East. Papers, magazines, plays, sermons, and lectures, even the movies, had made a concerted attack upon the younger generation. It had been pretty sickening to Janey. How good to get away from that atmosphere for a while! Perhaps here was a reason why she liked the West. But there seemed to be something working in her, which sooner or later she must face.

One afternoon Janey returned from her ride earlier than usual, so that she did not have to hurry and dress for dinner. She had settled herself in the hammock when her father and Randolph rode in from the opposite direction. The hammock was hidden under the vines outside the living-room window. They did not see Janey and she was too lazy or languid to call to them.

A little later she heard them enter the living room. The window there was open. "Janey must be dressing," said Endicott.

"She's back. I saw her saddle. We have time for a little chat. I've been wanting to talk to you."

"Go ahead. I'm glad our ride didn't tire you. By the way, what did you think of my Sagi?"

"Beautiful but dumb, as Janey would say. Quietest place I ever saw. Why, it was positively silent as a grave."

"Yes. It is a grave. That's why I dig around there so much," replied Randolph, with a laugh. Janey remembered that laugh, though she had heard it very seldom. It was rather rich and pleasant; and scarcely fitted the character she had given him. She had two sudden impulses, one to make them aware of her presence, and another not to do anything of the kind. Second impulses were mostly the stronger with Janey.

"Randolph, I'm very curious about you. What is there in it for you--in this grave-digging work, I mean?"

"Oh, it's treasure hunting in a way. I suppose an archaeologist is born. I seldom think of reward. But, really, if I discovered the prehistoric ruin I know is buried here somewhere it would be a big thing for me."

"Any money in it?" inquired the New York businessman.

"Not directly. At least not at once. I suppose articles and lectures could be translated into money. It would give me prestige, though."

"Hum. Well, prestige is all right for a young man starting in life but it doesn't produce much bread and butter. Do you get a salary, in addition to your remuneration for articles and lectures?"

"You could call it a salary by courtesy. But besides bread-and-butter fare of the simplest kind, it wouldn't buy stockings for a young lady I know," returned Randolph, and again he laughed, the same nice infectious laugh.

"Now you're talking," responded Endicott, with animation. "The young lady, of course, being Janey...Randolph, we're getting to be good friends. Let's be confidential. Did you ever ask my daughter to marry you?"

"Lord, no!" ejaculated Randolph.

"Well, that's a satisfaction. It's good for a young man to have individuality. I'm glad you're different from the many...May I ask--forgive my persistence; the awful responsibility of being this girl's father, you know--weren't you in love with her?"

There was quite a long silence in which Janey's heart beat quickly and her ears tingled. She had never really been sure of Randolph. That, perhaps, was his chief charm.

"Yes, Mr. Endicott," replied the archaeologist, constrainedly. "I was in love with Janey. Not, however, as those young men were in the East. But very terribly, deeply in love."

"Fine!...Oh, excuse me, Phillip," rejoined Endicott. "I mean--that's what I thought. That's why I liked you. These young lounge lizards play at love. They make me sick. Between you and me I've a sneaking suspicion they make Janey sick, too...Now, Phil, here's the vital question. Is all that past tense?"

Janey made the discovery that she was trembling, and imagined it was from the shame of being an unwitting eavesdropper. How impossible now to call out! Yet she might have slipped away. But she did not.

"No. I never got over it. And now it's worse," said Randolph, not without a tragic note.

"Phil! by heavens, you are a loyal fellow. Would it surprise you to know I'm pleased?"

"Thank you, Mr. Endicott. But I fear that I'm more than surprised."

"See here, Phil, you want to be prepared for jars, not only from Janey, but also me. I'm her Dad, you know...Listen, I brought Janey out to your desert with barefaced deliberate intent. To marry her to you and save her from that pack of wolves back there...Incidentally, of course, to make both of you happy!"

"My God!" gasped Randolph. He was not the only one who gasped. Janey in her excitement nearly fell out of the hammock.

"It's an honest fact and I'm not ashamed," went on Endicott, getting earnest.

"But, Mr. Endicott--you do me honor. You are most wonderfully kind--but you are quite out of your head."

"Maybe I am. I don't care. I mean it. I love Janey and I'd go to any extreme to save her. Then I like you immensely. Your father was my dearest friend in college and until he died. I'd get a good deal of happiness out of putting a spoke in your wheel of fortune."

"Save her!" ejaculated Randolph.

"For God's sake, Randolph, don't say you think it's too late," appealed Endicott, in sudden distress.

No quick response came, and Janey's heart stood still as she waited for Randolph's answer. What did that fool think, anyway? She was getting a little sick with anger and fear when Randolph burst out: "Endicott, you're crazy. I--I meant--what did you mean when you said save her?"

"I meant a lot, my boy, and don't overlook it...Tell me straight, Randolph. This is a serious matter for us all. Do you think Janey is still a good girl?"

"I don't think. I know," returned Randolph, ringingly. "Your question is an insult to her, Mr. Endicott."

"I wonder whether or not any question is that, in regard to young women in this age," went on Endicott, soberly. "I gave you credit for being a brainy clear-eyed fellow, for all your grave-digging propensity. I saw how you disapproved of Janey--her friends and habits."

"Yes, I did--deplorably so. But nevertheless--"

"Love is blind, my son," interposed Endicott. "You think more of Janey than she deserves. All the same I'm glad. That'll help us out. I regard you as an anchor."

"Mr. Endicott, I--I don't know what to say. I'm overwhelmed."

"Well, I dare say you've reason to be. But all the same you listen to me patiently. Will you?"

"Why, certainly."

"You were justified in being shocked at my question about Janey. But I wouldn't blame anyone for a pretty raw opinion of modern girls. I have it myself...To be brief, they have gotten under my skin, if you know what that means. Janey's generation is beyond my understanding. They have developed something new. They are eliminating right and wrong. They have no respect for their parents, and so far as I can see very little affection. They have a positive hatred for all restraint. They will not stand to be controlled. They have no faith in our old standards. As a rule they have no religion. They wear indecent clothes, or I might say very few clothes at all. They dance all night, drown themselves in booze, pet and neck indiscriminately, and most of them go the limit."

"Mr. Endicott!" expostulated Randolph, somewhat taken aback by the elder man's outburst.

"Phil, I'm telling you straight. This is not my theory. I know. I've got this young crowd figured that far, at least. I have no patience at all with the fatuous mamas and papas who claim the young people are all right. They are not all right. They are a fast crowd and the nation that depends on them and can't change them is slated for hell. These wise-acres who say there is no flagrant immorality are far off the track. Those who claim young women of today are no different from yesterday are simply blind. They are different, and I don't mean wholly the emancipation of women since the war. I was always for woman suffrage...Well, I'm not concerned with the causes, as whether or not we parents are to blame. I've done my damnedest for Janey and it hurts to think maybe I've failed. I'm honest in believing I've not been a bad example for my child. But sometimes Janey makes me crawl into a dark corner and hide...I'm concerned with the facts of what I'm telling you. I want to see Janey married to a good and straight and industrious young man. Janey says he doesn't exist...Her mother was like Janey, though not so beautiful. She was willful, intelligent, bewildering. But she had no vices...Now I take it Janey is about as fascinating as a young woman could be. Perhaps she is all the more so because of this complexity of modern times. She knows it. I wouldn't call Janey conceited. She's not really vain. She's rather a merciless gay modern young woman who takes pleasure in wading through a mob of men. If she heard her friends speak of a man who was not likely to fall for her, as they call it, Janey would yell, 'Lead me to him!' Despite all this I feel and hope Janey can be saved. Lord, fancy her hearing me say that! To my mind if she drifts with her crowd she'll never amount to anything. She would probably divorce one husband after another. I don't like the idea. Janey's mother left her something which she will have control of in another year. And then of course she'll get all I possess, which isn't inconsiderable. Her prospects then, and her beauty, make her a mark for the men she comes in contact with, and their name is legion. I have tried to keep her away from the worst of them. But it's impossible."

"Why impossible?" broke in Phillip, tersely.

"I gave up because when I'd tell Janey a certain young fellow was no fit acquaintance for her I would only stimulate interest. She'd say, 'Dad, you think you know a lot, but I'll have to see for myself'--and you bet she would."

"Then Janey wouldn't obey you?" asked Randolph.

"Obey!" echoed Endicott, in surprise. "Most certainly she would not."

"Then indeed you are to blame for what she is."

"Ha! I'd like to see you or anybody else make Janey obey."

"I could and I would," declared Randolph.

"My dear young Arizona archaeologist! May I ask how?" returned Endicott, not without sarcasm and amusement.

"I'd take that young lady across my knee and spank her soundly."

"Good Lord! You don't know what you're saying...Why, if I subjected Janey to such indignity she'd--she'd--well, what wouldn't she do? Wrecking the place where it happened would be the least...Yet, oh--how I have wanted to do that same little thing!"

"Mr. Endicott, your daughter is a spoiled child," asserted Randolph, in a tone that made Janey want to shriek.

"Spoiled--yes--and everything else," agreed Endicott, helplessly. "But with it all she is adorable. Have you noticed that, Phil?"

"Why, come to think of it I believe I have," he answered, with dry humor.

"Well, we are agreed on a few things, anyway. We can dismiss her demerits by acknowledging that, and her intelligence, truthfulness, and other cardinal virtues which she has in common with all the young people today. It may be that they are too advanced for us of the older generation to understand. It might be that something wonderful will come of such a paradox. But I can't see it, and my problem is to check Janey's mad career...Ha!--Ha!"

"If I may presume to advise you, Mr. Endicott, you are undertaking a perfectly impossible task," said Randolph.

"No! Why, Phil, I am sometimes damn fool enough to believe Janey might do all I ask just because she loves me. I know she does. But I always put things to her in a way that makes her furious. So I've quit it...This is my last card--my trump."

"This?" asked Randolph, with curiosity.

"This trip, and the plan I've decided upon. Here it is! I'm going to marry Janey to you."

There was an absolute blank silence. Janey felt what a shock this must have been to Randolph. It was no less a shock to her.

"Now--now I know what's the matter," said Randolph, finally, in a queer voice.

"What?"

"You really are out of your mind!"

"Well, that may be," returned Endicott, with good humor. "But I'll stand by my guns. I've sense enough to understand that you will at first indignantly refuse such a proposition. Won't you?"

"I certainly do," replied Randolph, bluntly.

"Randolph, no young man who knew and loved Janey could refuse for any other reason than he thought it preposterous...That she didn't care two straws for him?"

"Exactly. In my case one straw."

"The only weakness in my proposition is the hope, the dream, that Janey might love you someday. You must remember I know her as I knew her mother. Janey, too, is capable of the most extraordinary things."

"It surely would be that for her to--to--Oh, Endicott, the idea is ridiculous," returned Randolph, beginning in bitterness and ending in anger.

"Hear me out. If you don't I'll think you, too, are just like the rest of this generation...I base my hopes on this. Janey likes you--respects you. She makes all manner of fun of you, but underneath it there's something deep. At least it's deep enough to keep her from adding your scalp to her belt...You'll forgive me, Phil, for saying that any fancy-free girl would learn to care for you--under favorable circumstances."

"What are they?" queried the archaeologist.

"Never mind details. But I mean the things that make a man. I'll swear I don't believe Janey has ever met a real man...Well, to go on. I save my conscience in this case by believing she could care for you. And my plan is simply to give Janey a terrific jar--and then nature, with such a favorable start, will do the rest."

"Believe me, it would have to be a terrific jar, all right," said Randolph, with another of his resonant laughs.

"Believe me, it is. And it's simply this. Be as nice as pie to Janey. Then at an opportune time just throw her on a horse and pack her off to one of your ruins in the desert. Kidnap her! Keep her out there a little while--scare her half to death--let her know what it is to be uncomfortable, hungry, helpless. Then fetch her back. She'd have to marry you. I would insist upon it...Then we'd all be happy."

"Mr. Endicott, the only sane remark you've made is that epithet you applied to yourself a few moments ago."

"It is a most wonderful opportunity. You are ambitious. This would make you."

"No."

"I will make you a most substantial settlement. You will be independent for life. You can follow up your archaeological work for the love of it. You--"

"No!"

"Now, Phil, I can apply that epithet to you. May I ask why you refuse?"

"You--I--Oh, hell!...Endicott, it's because I really love Janey. I couldn't think of myself in such a case. If I did I'd--I'd be as weak as water...Why, Janey would hate me."

"Don't be so sure of that," replied Endicott, sagely. "You can't ever tell about a woman. It's a gamble, of course. But you have the odds. Be a good sport, Phil. Even if you lose you'll have gained an experience that you'll remember a lifetime."

"Mr. Endicott, you're taking advantage of human nature," replied Randolph, with agitation. Janey could hear him pacing the room, and she felt sorry for him. It pleased her that he had refused. But she knew her father, his relentless ways, and she held her breath.

"Certainly I am," agreed Endicott, growing warmer. "Phil, look at it this way. Consent for Janey's sake!"

"But man, I can't believe that wonderful girl is going to hell. I can't."

"Naturally. You're in love with her. To you she's an angel. All right. Think of it this way then. You admitted she was adorable. You just said she was wonderful. You know how beautiful she is. Well, here's your chance to make her yours. Maybe it's a thousand-to-one shot. Remember, you'll do her good in any case. And you've that one chance in a thousand. Her mother was the most loving of women. Why, Phil, if Janey loved you, you would be entering the kingdom of heaven. She might."

"My--God!" gasped the young man.

"I am her father. I worship her. And I am begging you to do this thing."

"All--right. I--I'll do it," replied Randolph, in a queer strangled voice. "It will be my ruin. But I can't resist...Only, understand--I couldn't accept money."

"Fact is, I didn't think you would," replied Endicott, quickly. "And your refusal makes me sure you are the right man. Come, shake on it, Phil. I'll be forever grateful to you whether we win or lose."

Janey heard him rise and cross the room. Taking advantage of this she slipped out of the hammock and ran round to the back of the house, and entering the long corridor she arrived at her room in a more excited and breathless state than she had ever been in all her life. Closing the door she locked it and then relaxed against it, with a hand over her throbbing breast.

"If that wasn't the limit!" she exclaimed, and succumbed to conflicting emotions, among which such rage as she had never felt assumed dominance.

Not long afterward her father knocked on the door. Janey did not answer. He knocked again, and called anxiously.

"Janey?"

"Yes."

"Dinner is ready. We're waiting."

"I don't want any," she replied.

"Why, what is the matter?"

"I've a headache."

"Headache!...You? Never heard of the like before."

"Maybe it's a toothache."

"Oh!" he returned, and discreetly retired.

When Janey's anger had finally subsided so that she could think, she found she was deeply wounded. Things for her had come to a very sad pass indeed, if her father could go to such extremes. But were they so bad for her? How perfectly absurd! There was not anything wrong with her. Yet all the same an awakened consciousness refused to accept her indignant assurance. She knew she was the pride and joy of her father's life. He was a trying parent indeed; nevertheless she could not seriously say he had neglected her or given her a bad example. He was just thick-headed, and too much concerned about her affairs. Janey, however, dodged for the present any serious thought concerning her friends and acquaintances at home. They were as good as any other crowd.

Randolph! She could overcome her shame and resentment enough to feel sorry for him. What chance had he against her father, especially if he was genuinely attracted to her? Janey blushed in the loneliness of her room. Randolph had saved his character, in her estimation, by scorning her father's opinions, by resisting his subtle attack, by refusing any consideration of a material gain in his outrageous proposals.

Then Janey happened to remember what Randolph had said about spanking her. In a sudden fury she leaped up and began to pace the little room. There was not very much in the way of disgust, contempt, amazement, pride, wrath, that did not pass through her mind. What an atrocious insult! He had been in earnest. He talked as if she were a nine-year-old child. Her cheeks burned. She refused in the heat of the moment to answer a query that knocked at her ears.

"Oh, I won't do a thing to Phillip Randolph!" she said, under her breath, and as she said it she caught sight of her face in the mirror. When had she looked like that? Only the other day she had fancied she wore a tired bored look. At least she was indebted to Randolph for a glow and a flash of radiance.

A hundred thoughts whirled through her mind. One of them was to run off from her father and punish him that way. Another was to actually be what he feared she was or might become. The former appeared too easy on him and the second unworthy of her. It stung her acutely that she was compelled to prove to him how really different she was. But revenge first! She would show them. She would play up to their infamous plot. She would walk right into their little trap. Then--she would frighten her clever parent out of his wits. And as for Randolph! She would reduce him to such a state of love-sick misery that he would want to die. She would be ten thousand times herself and everything else she could lend herself to. She would help him on with the little scheme, make him marry her; and then, when he and her father were at the top of their bent and ridiculously sure of her so-called salvation, she would calmly announce to them that she had known all about it beforehand. She would denounce them, and go home and divorce Randolph.

The next morning Janey saw Randolph and her father ride away on their horses, evidently well pleased with themselves over something. Then she went late to her breakfast, finding it necessary to play the actress with the solicitous Mrs. Bennet. She would have to be a brilliant actress, anyway, so she might as well begin. She might develop histrionic ability, and make a name on the stage.

She did not ride that morning. Part of the time she spent in her room, and the other walking in the shade of the cottonwoods.

After lunch Janey tried to read. All the books and magazines she had appeared to be full of humor or tragedy of the younger generation. One after another she slammed them on the floor.

"This business is getting damn serious," ejaculated Janey.

All the preachers, editors, physicians, philosophers, were explaining either how horrible the young people were, or else how misunderstood, or abandoned by money-mad parents to their dark fate. Even college boys and girls were writing about themselves. Something was wrong somewhere; and as the thought struck Janey she found herself reaching for a cigarette. With swift temper she threw the little box against the wall. She would have to quit smoking--which meant nothing at all to Janey. She could quit anything. She remembered, however, that in accordance with the plan to revenge herself upon her father and Randolph, she must smoke like a furnace. So she took the trouble to pick up the cigarettes. Still, she did not smoke one then.

The afternoon slowly waned. It had been an upsetting day for Janey. She had changed a hundred times, like the shifting of a wind vane. But the thing most permanent was the stab to her pride. Not soon would she get over that hurt. She did not realize yet just why or how she had been so mortally offended, but she guessed it would come to her eventually.

For the first time in years Janey missed her mother. Was she self-sufficient as she had supposed? She certainly was not, for she fought an hour against rather strange symptoms, and then succumbed to a good old-fashioned crying spell.

CHAPTER 3

That evening a little before suppertime, when Randolph walked into the living room, Janey made it a point to be there. She had adorned herself with a gown calculated to make him gasp. She perceived that he had difficulty in concealing his dismay. The day of mental stress, without the usual exercise and contact with the open, had left her pale with faint finde shadows under her eyes. Janey thought she could take care of the rest.

"I'm sorry you were indisposed," said Randolph, solicitously. "I see you haven't been out today. That's too bad."

"It has been a lonely, awful day," replied Janey, pathetically.

"I hope you haven't been very ill. You looked so--so wonderful yesterday. You're pale now. No doubt you've overdone this riding around with the cowboys."

"I guess I'm not so strong as Dad thinks I am. But I'm really not tired that is, physically."

"No? What's wrong then?"

Janey transfixed Randolph with great melancholy eyes. "I'm dying of homesickness. This place is dead. It's a ruin. You could dig right here and find a million bones."

"Dead!...Oh, yes, indeed, it is rather quiet for a girl used to New York," he returned, plainly disappointed. "I rather expected you would like it--for a while, and really, you seemed to be enjoying yourself. I know your father thinks you're having the time of your life."

"I was. But it didn't last. Nothing happens. I imagined there'd be some excitement. Why, I can't even get a kick out of a horse," complained Janey.

"Take care about that," said Randolph, seriously. "Bennet has seen to it that you've had only gentle horses. I heard him rake the cowboys about this. None of their tricks!"

"Mr. Randolph," returned Janey, sweetly explaining, "I didn't mean that kind of a kick. I'd like a horse to run off with me--since there's no man out here to do it."

Janey was blandly innocent, and apparently unconscious of Randolph's slight start and quick look. She was going to enjoy this better than she had expected.

"I--I daresay the cowboys--and all Westerners--couldn't understand you, Miss Janey," rejoined Randolph. "They will exert themselves to amuse you--take care of you. But never dream--of--how--"

"That a New York girl requires some stimulant," interposed Janey. "Oh, I get that. These nice dumb cowboys! I thought they were going to be regular fellows. But, do you know, Mr. Randolph, not a single one of them has attempted to kiss me!"

"Indeed! From what I know of them I think that'd be the last thing they'd attempt. They are gentlemen, Miss Endicott," said Randolph, rather stiffly.

"What's that got to do with kissing a girl?" retorted Janey, hard put to restrain her laughter. "It'd be fun to see their line of work. And in the case of that handsome Zoroaster--well, I might let him get away with it."

Randolph stared at her incredulously, with infinite disapproval.

"Outside of yourself, Mr. Zoroaster is the only good-looking man around the place. And as you don't seem to be aware of my presence here, I'd rather welcome a little attention from him."

"Miss Endicott!" ejaculated Randolph. "You are complimentary--and rather otherwise, all in one breath. It is you who have not been aware of my presence."

"What could you expect?" queried Janey, with a bewildering confusion. "I might flirt with a cowboy. But I couldn't--well throw myself at a man of your intelligence and culture. All the same I've been hoping you'd take me around a little. To your ruins and interesting places. And maybe amuse me in the evenings, or at least do something to kill the awful monotony. In New York you seemed to like me. I daresay Dad has talked about me--queered me with you."

Randolph had been reduced to a state of speechlessness. He actually blushed, and there leaped to his eyes a light that made them very warm and appealing. At this point Mr. Endicott came in. He looked unusually bright and cheerful, but at sight of Janey his smile faded.

"Janey, dear, you look sort of down," he commiserated, kissing her. "I forgot you had a headache or something."

"Dad, I've just been complaining to Phil. But he doesn't care whether I'm sick or homesick, or what."

"Phil!--Homesick?--Why Janey!" exclaimed Mr. Endicott, quite taken aback.

"Dad, will you let me go home?" she asked, mournfully.

"Janey!"

"Don't look like that. What do you think anyway? You've dragged me out to this dead hole. Nothing happens. You said Phil would be tickled pink to run around with me."

"I didn't say anything of the kind," declared her father, turning a little pink himself.

"Oh, I mean words to that effect," replied Janey, airily. "But, as you've seen, he has studiously avoided me--as if I was a pestilence. Left me to the mercy of these cowboys!"

"I'm sure there is a misunderstanding," returned Mr. Endicott, divided between doubt and exultation.

"There certainly is," added Randolph, emphatically. "I hope it isn't too late for me to correct it."

"I'm afraid so," said Janey, with eyes on him. "Else how could I ever have told you?"

"Nonsense," spoke up her father. "Janey, you must be a little off your feed or something."

"Dad, I'm not a horse or a cow--and I would like a little fruit salad or a lobster." Suddenly she clapped her hands. "I've an idea. Perfectly delicious. Let me send for Bert?"

"What? That last faint gasp of the Durland family?"

"Dad, I'd have a perfectly glorious time riding around with him."

"Humph! I don't believe it. You don't know what you do want."

"Please, Daddy. Bert would at least amuse me."

"He would. And us, too. But no, Janey. I can't see it," declared Endicott.

"Very well, Father," agreed Janey. She never called him "Father" except in cases like this. "I've done my best to please you. The consequences will be upon your head."

Endicott grunted, gave Janey a baffled glance and stepped out the open door to view the afterglow of the sunset. Randolph was perturbed. Janey enjoyed the assurance that her new line had been effective. No man could resist subtle flattery!

"Miss Janey--if you--if I--if there has been a misunderstanding--let me make it right," began Randolph, with a sincerity that made Janey feel villainous. "Frankly, I--I didn't think you cared two straws about my work, or the ruins--or me either. So I never asked you. You remember I used to try to interest you in the desert. Indeed there is much here to interest you--if you will only see. Suppose you ride out with me tomorrow."

Janey fixed sad eyes upon his earnest face.

"No, Phil. I told you--it's too late. You'd never have thought of it, if I hadn't gone down and out. I'm sorry, but I can't accept solicited attention."

"You're very unkind, at least," rejoined Randolph, vexed and hurt. "You've scarcely looked at me, since your arrival. Now you complain of my--my neglect. I tell you--to accuse me of indifference is perfectly ridiculous."

Then the little Indian maid called them to supper. When Endicott followed them in and caught a glimpse of Randolph's face he threw up his hands, then he laughed heartily. Janey understood him. It was a return to good humor and the hopelessness of ever doing anything with her. His mirth, however, did not infect Randolph, who scarcely said another word, ate but little, and soon excused himself.

"Say, honey, what'd you do to Phil?" inquired Endicott, genially.

"Nothing."

"Which means a whole lot. Well, tell me."

"I let him know I did like him very much that his indifference has hurt me deeply--and that now--"

"Ah! I see. Now, in the vernacular of your charming crowd there's nothing doing," interrupted her father. "Janey, dear, if I were Phil I'd be encouraged. I remember your mother. When I was most in despair my chances were brightest. Only I didn't know it."

"Dad, I did like Phil," murmured Janey, dreamily.

"It's too bad you don't any more...What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"Perhaps I will feel well enough to ride a little."

"Good. I'm motoring to Flagerstown. I'll be back before dark, I think. I've got important letters and telegrams to send."

"You won't let me wire for Bert Durland?" asked Janey.

"Janey, don't always put me at a disadvantage," returned Endicott, impatiently. "You know I'd let you have anyone or anything--if you convinced me of your need. But, darling, you know Durland would bore you to death. Be honest."

"I suspect he might--after he got here," acknowledged Janey, demurely. "But, Dad, just think of the fun the cowboys would have out of him. And he'd make Phil perfectly wild!"

"Aha! You've said it, my daughter," declared Endicott, clapping his hands. "I had a hunch, as Bennet says...Well, Janey, you must excuse me. I've got to spend the evening writing. You can have a nice quiet hour reading."

"Hour! I can't go to bed for hours."

"Janey, you look perfectly wonderful, ravishing--and--well, indecent in that flimsy white gown. It'd make a first-rate handkerchief for one of these man-sized Westerners. But it's wasted on the desert air."

"Yes, I'm afraid my desire to look well for Phil was wasted," returned Janey. "Men are no good. You can't please them."

"Perhaps the emancipation of women has peeved us," remarked Endicott, slyly.

Janey was curious to see if Randolph would come back to the living room. She hoped he would not, for he appeared to be giving her a taste of something different in masculine reactions. She talked to the Bennets about the cowboys and Randolph, learning more and more for her amusement and interest. They regarded the archaeologist as one of the family and were immensely proud of his work. It might have been gold hunting, for all the store they put on it. Janey began to gather some inkling of the importance of Randolph's discovery of the pueblo claimed by scientists to have existed there centuries past. She began to hope for his success.

Randolph did not appear again and the Bennets retired early. Janey was left to her thoughts, which she found pleasant. Soon she went to her room, and to bed. Though she would not admit it to her father, the quiet of the night, the comfortable feel of wool blankets, the black darkness appealed strongly to her.

What few words and glances it had taken to upset Phillip Randolph! If Janey had not been so outraged her conscience might have given her a twinge. Deep within her dwelt a respect for honesty and simplicity. The idea she had given Randolph--that she had expected and hoped for a little attention from him--had completely floored him. After all it was not much of a deceit. She had expected more than a little. There was something warm and sweet in the thought of his really caring for her like that. Janey believed that no real woman of the present or of the future would ever feel otherwise than stirred at a man's honest love. It was in the race, and the race's progress toward higher things depended upon it. Janey made the mental observation that the world had not progressed very much lately.

Next morning she again delayed going into breakfast purposely to miss Randolph and her father. Janey put on her riding clothes, taking her time about it.

After breakfast the only one of the cowboys around the corrals was Ray.

"Mornin'," he greeted her. "When did you come back to life? Us boys figgered you was daid."

"Me? Oh, I never let anybody get tired of me," responded Janey. "Can I have Patter saddled?"

"I reckon, but I cain't see what for. That cayuse is no good. He's got a mean eye when he rolls it. Now my little roan--"

"Ray, you boys can't fool me any longer about the horses. They're all good. Please saddle Patter for me."

While Ray went to fetch the horse Janey walked into the trading post, always and increasingly interesting to her. Bennet was selling supplies to the Indians. Janey liked to hear the low strange voices. One of the Indians was nothing if not frankly admiring. He was a tall, slim, loose-jointed individual, wearing corduroys and moccasins, a huge-buckled and silver-ornamented belt, a garnet-colored velveteen shirt, and a black sombrero with a bright-braided band. He had a lean face like a hawk, dark and clear, and piercing black eyes. Janey had been advised not to appear interested in the Indian men--that they misunderstood it, and had been known to give Eastern women some rude shocks. As usual Janey disregarded advice.

She noticed when she left the post that the Indian sauntered out to watch her. Janey thought if Phil Randolph would act that way, she would be highly gratified. Patter was saddled waiting for her, a fine little bay mustang.

"What's Smoky followin' you for?" queried Ray, gruffly.

"Smoky, who's he?"

"Thet blamed Navey."

"Oh, I see. I don't know, Ray. I certainly didn't ask him to. It's quite flattering, though. But not complimentary to you boys."

"Wal, Miss, if you excuse me I'll say thet's not funny an' you ain't ridin' out alone," said Ray.

"Indeed. Ray, you can be most disagreeable at times. It spoils a perfectly wonderful man. I am going to ride alone."

"Nope. If you won't listen to me I'll tell Bennet."

"Aren't you just inventing an opportunity to ride with me?"

"Reckon not. I don't care particular aboot ridin' with you, after the deal you gave me last time."

"What was that, Ray? I forget."

"Wal, never mind...Now this Indian Smoky is a bad hombre an' it's really because he's not all there. He's not to be trusted. He might foller you around jes' curious. But if you got too nice to him things might happen. If he annoys you he'll be a daid redskin damn quick."

"Thank you, Ray, I'll say that's talking," responded Janey. "But tell me, what do you do to white men out here, when they insult Eastern girls?"

"Wal, Miss, white men--that is, Westerners don't insult girls from anywhere," returned Ray, forcefully.

"But they do. I've heard and read of lots of things--Suppose now just for example you were to kidnap me and pack me off into the desert. What would happen to you?"

"If I didn't get strung up to a cottonwood I'd shore be beat till I was near daid...But, Miss Janey, you needn't worry none about me. I've learned to fight my natural instincts."

Janey laughed merrily. Some of these cowboys were full of wit and humor.

"Ray, I'll compromise this ride with you," said Janey. "I want to surprise Mr. Randolph at his work. So you take me out and show me where he is. But you must wait some little distance away--But won't I be taking you from your own work?"

"Boss's orders are that I look after you, Miss Janey," said Ray, with emphasis on the personal pronouns. "I'll throw a saddle an' be heah pronto."

They rode out along the fenced ground, where Bennet kept stock at times, and came upon Tay-Tay, Diego and Zoroaster digging postholes. If there was anything a cowboy hated more than that, Ray declared he did not know what it was. The trio doffed their sombreros to Janey, and grinned because they could not help it, but they were galled at the situation.

"Reckon that's fair to middlin'," declared Ray, eying the postholes. "But you ain't diggin' them deep enough."

Zoroaster glared at Ray and threw down the long-handled shovel. Diego wiped the sweat from his face.

"Say, are you foreman on this ranch?" he asked, scornfully.

"G-g-g-go along w-w-w-with you or you'll g-get h-h-h-hurt," stuttered Tay-Tay.

"Wal, as I don't care to have Miss Endicott see you boys any wuss than you are now reckon I'll move along," drawled Ray.

Janey gave each in turn a ravishing smile, intended to convey the impression that she wished he were her escort rather than Ray. Then she trotted Patter out on the desert after Ray.

They climbed a gradual ascent to the level of the vast valley and faced the great red wall of rock that loomed a few miles westward. She rode abreast of Ray for a couple of miles, talking the while, then, reaching uneven ground, she had to fall behind on the rough trail. Ray halted at a clump of cedars.

"Reckon this is as far as you'll want me to go," he announced. "Follow the trail right to where it goes into the canyon. You'll see a big cave in the wall. That's the old cliff dwellin' where Mr. Randolph is diggin' around."

"Thank you, Ray. Will you wait for me?"

"Wal, not if you're ridin' back with him," returned Ray, reluctantly. "But I want to be shore about it."

"I think you'd better wait. I'll not be long."

Janey had not ridden a hundred paces farther before she forgot all about Ray. The trail led down into a red-walled wash where muddy water flowed over quicksand, which she had to cross. She had already crossed this stream at a different point, though not alone. Here she had to use her own judgment. She made Patter trot across; even then he floundered in the quicksand and splashed muddy water all over Janey. Once he went in to his knees and Janey's heart leaped to her throat. But he plowed out safely. It was this sort of thing that so excited and pleased Janey. All so new! And being alone made it tenfold more thrilling. The dusty trail, the zigzag climb, the winding in and out among rocks and through the cedars, with the great red wall looming higher and closer, the dry fragrance of desert and sage, the loneliness and wildness, meant more to Janey this day than ever before. Not for anything would she let Phil Randolph and her father into the secret that she was actually learning to love Arizona. The beauty and color and solitude, the vastness of it had called to something deep in her. First she had complained of the dust, the wind, the emptiness, the absence of people. But she had forgotten these. She was now not so sure but that she might like the hardship and primitiveness of the desert.

Presently she rode out of the straggling cedars so that she could fully see the great wall. Janey threw back her head to gaze upward.

"Oh--wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I thought the New York buildings were high. But this!"

It was a sheer red wall, rising with breaks and ledges to a cedar-fringed rampart high against the blue sky. The base was a slope of talus, where rocks of every size appeared about to totter and roll down upon her.

Then Janey discovered the cave. It was the most enormous hole she had ever seen, and she calculated that Trinity Church would be lost in it. The upper part disappeared in shadow; the lower showed a steep slope and ruined rock walls, which Janey guessed were the remains of the cliff dwellers' homes. She was being impressed by the weirdness of the scene when she heard a shout and then spotted a man standing at the foot of the cave. It was Randolph. He waved to her and began to descend the slide of weathered rock. As he drew nearer to her level Janey saw that he had indeed been working. How virile he looked! She quite forgot the object of her visit; and almost persuaded herself that if he was particularly nice she would climb up to see him at his work.

"Howdy, Phil," she called, imitating the trader, as nearly as possible. It struck Janey then that Phil did not appear overjoyed to see her.

"Is your father with you?" he asked.

"No. He went to town."

"I hope to goodness you didn't ride up here alone," he said.

"Sure I did. And a dandy ride it was."

"Janey!" he ejaculated.

"Yes, Janey!" she returned.

He did not grasp any flippancy on her part.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, almost angrily.

"Well, come to think of it I guess I wanted to see you and your work," she returned, innocently.

"But you've been told not to ride out alone--away from the post."

"I know I have, and it makes me sick. Why not? I'm not a child, you know. Besides, there aren't any kidnapers about, are there?"

"Yes. Kidnapers and worse...Frankly, Miss Endicott, I think you ought to have a good stiff lecture."

"I'm in a very good humor. So fire away."

"You're a headstrong, willful girl," he declared, bluntly.

"Phillip, you're not very kind, considering that, well--I relented a little, and rode out here to see you," she replied, reproachfully.

"I am thinking of you. Somebody has to stop you from taking these risks. The cowboys let you do anything, though they have been ordered to watch you, guard you. If your father can't make you behave somebody else must."

"And you've got a hunch you're the somebody?" inquired Janey, laconically.

"It seems presumptuous, absurd," he answered, stubbornly. "But I really fear I am."

"We're both going to have a wonderful time," said Janey, with a gay laugh. "But before you break loose on this reforming task let me confess I came alone only part way. I left Ray back down the trail at that gully."

"You did! But you told me--you lied--"

"I wanted to see how you would take it," she said, as he hesitated.

Randolph sat down on a slab of rock and regarded her as one baffled.

"That's the worst of you," he asserted. "A man can't quite give you up in despair or disgust. There always seems to be something wholesome under this damned frivolity of yours."

"I'm glad you are so optimistic," returned Janey.

"No need to ask you how you are feeling," Randolph observed. "Yesterday you were pale--drooping. Your father was really worried. And I...But today you look like a sago lily."

"Sago? That's the name of your canyon, isn't it? And what kind of a flower? Is it pretty?"

"I think it the most exquisite in the world. Rare, rich, vivid. It blooms in the deep canyons in summer. I daresay you'll not stay long enough to see one."

"Phil, I never guessed you could be eloquent, or so good at blarney," she said, studying him gravely. "I'm beginning to believe there are unknown possibilities in you for good--and maybe evil, too."

"Sure. You can never tell what a man may do--or be driven to."

"Aren't you going to ask me to get down and come in?" she asked, archly.

"You must pardon my manners," he said, rising.

Janey slipped out of the saddle without accepting the hand he offered, and leading Patter to a near-by cedar she tied the bridle to a branch.

"I want to see your cave."

"It's pretty much of a climb."

"I suppose yesterday will stump you for some time," she replied. "Can't I have an off day once in a while without being considered a weakling? Come on, let's go."

Janey soon found that it was indeed a climb. Distances deceived her so strangely here in Arizona. There was a trail up to the cave, but it wound steep and rough, with many high steps from rock to rock. She was glad to accept Randolph's hand; and when they surmounted the slope she was breathless and hot. Randolph held her hand longer than necessary.

"Oh-h--Gee!" panted Janey, flopping down on a rock in the shade. "Some--climb."

"You made it without a stop," returned Randolph, admiringly. "Your heart and lungs are sure all right--if your mind is gone."

"Mr.--Randolph!"

"That's your father's assumption," said Randolph, dryly. "I don't exactly share it."

"Maybe I am--just a healthy--moron," laughed Janey, removing her sombrero. "Wouldn't it be fine--if the desert and you--developed me into a real woman?"

"Morons don't develop," he replied, ignoring her intimation.

Janey now took stock of the archaeologist's cave. It was an amazing cavern. She sat at the lower edge of the slope of its back wall, yet the vaulted roof, far overhead, reached out into the canyon. A dry, dusty, musty odor, not unpleasant, permeated the place. The debris from the walls and slopes was red and yellow. Far up Janey discerned the remains of walls. In the largest section a small black window, like a vacant eye, stared down at her. It gave her a queer sensation. Human eyes had gazed out of that window ages ago. She saw a trench near her, with pick and shovel lying where Randolph had thrown them.

"Mr. Randolph, were you in the war?" asked Janey, suddenly.

"Yes, a little while. Long enough to learn to dig. That's about the only real good the service did me," he replied, somewhat bitterly.

"You should be grateful. My friends who went to France came back no good. You certainly seem free of any injury."

"I am, I guess, except a twist in my mind. I only knew of it recently--last winter in fact."

"Indeed. And how does it affect you?" asked Janey, doubtfully.

"I think it developed a latent weakness for beauty."

"In nature?"

"Oh, no. I always had that. It must be in--woman."

"Any woman. Well, that is no weakness. It's a very commendable thing, and gives you a kinship with most men."

"Miss Endicott, I didn't say in any woman," returned Randolph, sharply.

"Didn't you? Very well, it doesn't matter...Now, show me around the place and tell me all about your work."

Randolph had something on his mind. He did not seem natural. It was as if he had been compelled to be someone he was not. Janey half regretted that she had not encouraged him to tell more about the woman he had a weakness for. So far she was inwardly elated with the success of her machinations.

"You wouldn't make much of a hit as a guide for lady tourists," remarked Janey, after Randolph had shown her the several trenches he had dug, some bits of pottery, dry as powder, and the ruined walls.

"On the contrary, I was a decided success for the party of schoolteachers who visited me here last summer," declared Randolph.

"Oh. Then I have some inhibitory effect upon you," remarked Janey.

"Probably. I don't seem to care a--er--anything about archaeology, geology, theology, or any other kind of ology," returned Randolph, ruefully.

"I'm sorry. I must not tax your mental powers so severely," said Janey.

"You think you're being sarcastic. But as a matter of fact you have taxed all my powers to the limit. Powers of patience, resistance, faith--and I don't know what all--"

"What a dreadful person I am!" interposed Janey, really in earnest. "Please, if you can't forget it, at least you needn't rub it in...Where do you expect to uncover this buried pueblo? Dad said you had set your heart on discovering it."

"You don't care two whoops for any ruin--unless it is the ruin of a man."

"Maybe I didn't at first. But I do now. Can't you credit me with change or growth or something worth while?"

"I don't know what to think about you," he returned, almost dejectedly.

"Assuredly you don't. Well, I'm quite capable of coming out here and finding that ruin for you."

"Please don't. I'm perfectly miserable now," he retorted, grimly. But there was a light in his eyes that belied his words. Janey knew he was saying to himself he must not have faith in dreams.

"It would mean so much to you--finding this pueblo?"

"Yes. There's only one thing that could mean more."

"I don't suppose I'd look very well digging around in this dirt," mused Janey. "But as you haven't any use for me in up-to-date evening clothes perhaps you might like me all dusty and red and hot. So here goes."

Janey began to clamber down into the deepest trench, and when she got up to her shoulders she grasped the pick.

"Miss Endicott, can't you be serious?" burst out Randolph. "You're not a bit funny. And that talk about me--"

"I'm serious about making you admire me, at least," laughed Janey, brandishing the pick.

"Please come out of there. You're just soiling your clothes."

"Nope. I'm going to dig," rejoined Janey, nonchalantly. "Quien sabe? I may have to marry an archaeologist someday."

"Come out of there," called Randolph, peremptorily.

Janey began to dig in the red earth. She dragged up stones, and presently what looked very much like a human bone.

"Ugh! I declare. What's that thing?" ejaculated Janey.

"It's a leg-bone, of course. You're digging in a grave. I told you that."

"You didn't," retorted Janey.

"Never mind about that. You come out of there."

"Mr. Randolph, you might send me to my own grave, but you can't make me get out of this one."

As she brandished the pick again he reached down to grasp it. Janey held on. Randolph slipped his grip down the handle until he caught her gloved hands. Whereupon he forced the pick from her and dragged her, not at all gently, up out of the trench.

He let go of her rather abruptly, probably because of the look she gave him; and Janey's impetus, being considerable, caused her to stumble. It was a little downhill on that side. She fell right upon Randolph who caught her in his arms. The awkwardness of her action made Janey more indignant than ever. Her sombrero fell off and her hair covered her eyes. She raised her face from his shoulder and sought to catch her balance. Suddenly, Randolph bent to kiss her full on the lips.

CHAPTER 4

Janey broke away from Phil and started back. For a moment she was too conscious of unfamiliar and disturbing agitations to remember that she had adopted the role of actress.

"Janey!--Miss Endicott!" stammered the young archaeologist. "I--I didn't mean that. I must have been out of my head. Forgive me!"

"Now you've done it!" exclaimed Janey. She was not sure yet what he had done, but it was certainly more than he felt guiltily conscious of.

"I was beside myself," said Randolph, hurriedly. "You must believe me. I--I had no such intention. I'm--I'm as--as shocked as you are...You fell right into my arms. And I--I did it involuntarily."

"You may tell that to the marines," replied Janey, recovering, and getting back to the business of her part.

"You won't believe me?" he demanded, getting red in the face.

"Certainly not," returned Janey, coldly, as she smoothed her disheveled hair. "I wouldn't put it beyond you to treat every girl that way--especially if she was fool enough to visit you alone out here."

He glared at her in mingled wrath and distress.

"I never kissed a girl before!" he asserted, stoutly.

"Well!" exclaimed Janey, in simulated contemptuous doubt, when really she was thrilled with what seemed the truth in his eye and voice. "You must have a poor opinion of my intelligence. If you had come out like a man and told me straight that you couldn't resist such an opportunity and were glad of it, I might have forgiven you. It's nothing to be kissed. But you've pretended to be so self-righteous. You've scorned my young men friends. You've deceived me into thinking highly of you--respecting you. And I honestly believe I did like you...Now I'm quite sure I ought never ride out alone."

Randolph groaned. Then he leaped into the trench and seizing the pick he began to dig with great violence, making the stones fly and the dust rise. Janey spoke again, but either he did not or would not hear her. Whereupon she recovered her sombrero and turned to find her way down the slope. She had just reached the rough part, and was searching for the trail when she heard Randolph behind her.

"I quite forgot. I can't let you attempt getting down here alone," he said.

"Mr. Randolph, I'd fall and break my neck before I'd let you help me," returned Janey, loftily.

"I warn you not to fall again within my reach," he declared, grimly.

Janey started down, aware that he followed closely. She was glad she had her face turned away from him. When she got to the broken sections of rock she performed apparent feats of balancing which would have put a tightrope walker to shame. She would sway this way and that, and almost fall. Then she leaped the fissures, and took some chances of hurting herself. But she descended the jumble of rocks safely, and then the rest of the slope with ease. Randolph had halted about a third of the way from the bottom, and when Janey looked over the saddle of her horse she saw him sitting on a stone, watching her.

"Good-by, wild woman," he called.

"Good-by, cave man," she retorted.

Mounting she rode away without looking back, which was an act that required will power. Once in the cedars, out of sight and alone, she reveled in the unexpected turn and success of her venture. Randolph was simply an honest boy, very much in love, and at the mercy of his feelings. He had helped along her little plan by placing himself at a disadvantage. How astounded he had been, then furious at himself and her! Janey remembered that he had winced when he said it was nothing to be kissed. Well, she had lied in that. It was a great deal to be kissed, as she began to realize now. She had chosen to lead him to believe kissing was merely a casual and familiar thing in her young life, when in reality she had not been nearly as indiscriminate in her games as she had let on.

Janey believed she was angrier than ever with Randolph, a great deal more so now than at her father. Yet there was a tempering voice she would not listen to. It was piercing her armor to some extent when she rode right upon Ray, so abruptly that she was surprised. That ended her meditations, for Ray appeared curious and keen about her visit to the archaeologist. It did not occur to Janey to tantalize Ray, or to stop and torment the cowboys at their fencepost digging. By the time she was again at ease in her room she realized the cowboys had begun to fade out of the picture. Janey did not regret it, though she wondered at herself. Naturally, however, if a girl was going to be abducted against her will, and maltreated, and finally married, she must be quite interested in the man who was daring to do all this.

At lunch she was outspoken about her visit to Randolph's cave. The Bennets were much pleased. Plain indeed was it that they were fond of Randolph and proud of his archaeological work.

"Wal, if you liked that Sagi hole you shore ought to see Beckyshibeta," remarked Bennet.

"Beckyshibeta! My, that's a jawbreaker," replied Janey, with a laugh. "What and where is it?"

"Beckyshibeta means cow water. It's Navajo for a water hole. I never saw it when it wasn't muddy an' shore tastin' of cows. Reckon it's about sixty miles by trail, nearer across country. Wild rocky place where the Indians seldom go. Phil thinks they've a reason for avoiding it, same as in the case of Nonnezoshe, the great Rainbow Bridge. He has a notion there might be a buried pueblo at Beckyshibeta. There are cliff dwellin's still in good state of preservation, an' many ruins. We seldom recommend Beckyshibeta to our visitors. It's far off. The cowboys hate the rocky country because they have to pack hoss feed and water. An' shore there are places interestin' enough near at hand, an' comfortable for camp. But before you an' your father leave you want to see both Nonnezoshe an' Beckyshibeta."

"I'm sure I'd love to," responded Janey.

She did not meet the cowboys again that day until after supper when she walked out to see the sunset, and to look for her father. This was always an attractive hour at the post. Indians were riding up and departing; the picturesque cowboys, mostly through with work for the day, were lounging about on the bales of wool and blankets. The moment Janey arrived they became animated as one man. Janey did not take much notice of them, despite their transparent acts and words. Strolling a little way she halted at the hitching rail to watch the pageant in the gold-and-purple west.

"Mighty cool evenin'," remarked Mohave, in a voice that came clearly to Janey.

"Say, fellars, did anythin' hit you in the eye, kinda like a chunk of ice?" drawled Zoroaster.

"S-s-s-some of y-y-y-youse hombres has done s-s-s-somethin'," stuttered Tay-Tay, belligerently.

"Our gracious Senorita is in one of her grand moods," Diego said.

"Aw, you punchers are locoed," added Ray, scornfully. "Cain't you tell when to get off and walk?"

Janey moved on out of earshot of her loyal cavaliers. It was the first time she had not paid attention to one or all of them. What had happened to her? But she soothed both conscience and concern with former arguments.

In the west the bulge of desert waved black as ebony against the intense gold flare of sky. Above this belt, a broken reef of purple clouds appeared beaten upon by contending tides of silver and rose. Through a ragged rent the sinking sun sent shafts of radiant light down behind the horizon.

In the east the panorama was no less striking and beautiful. The desert sent its walls and domes and monuments of red rock far up into the sky of gorgeous pink and white clouds.

Janey drew a deep full breath. Yes, Arizona was awakening her to something splendid and compelling. How vast and free and windswept this colored desert! She had learned to recognize a faint fragrance of sage, which came only in a north breeze. It was sweet and cool now in her face. Then up over a near-by ridge appeared a black silhouette of an Indian and mustang, wild and lonely. Next the hum of a motorcar broke her absorption. No doubt it was the trader's Studebaker returning with her father.

"Look here, peaches," quizzically remarked her father, when they had gotten indoors. "Anyone would think I'd been absent a month. What's the bright idea?"

"Oh! Did I make such a fuss over you--as that?" asked Janey, merrily.

"You sure did. Fact is you never welcomed me like that, even on my returns from Europe...Have you been lonely and blue again? Is that why?"

"Not today," returned Janey. "No, I was just happy and unconscious of it, Dad...I guess maybe I did miss you a lot."

"Well, you can bet I'm glad, whatever it is."

Janey left him in the dining room, too hungry for conversation. Then she delved a little into her mind. She had absolutely forgotten her new role. She was supposed to be very angry with her father, but she wasn't. She had not been in the least lonely for him or homesick. In reality she had skipped about ten years of her life and had met him as a child. Janey's deductions took her back through the eventful day at the tilt with Phil, and then she got no further. It was rather confusing. But at length she assuaged her wounded vanity by accepting her remarkable fine spirits as due to the way she was turning the tables on Phil and her father.

"Maybe I'm kidding myself," murmured Janey, with a snicker. "Ye Gods! Could I have been so happy because he kissed me?"

Janey was wholly at ease again when her father joined her in the living room. He was full of his trip to town, and claimed the ride in--looking the opposite way to that in which they had come--was even more beautiful. Telegraph communications from New York had been eminently satisfactory.

"How's your day been?" he asked, when he had concluded about his own.

"Mine? Oh, rich, immense," replied Janey. "I hope you haven't played any more hob with these cowboys."

"Oh, dear, no. I've scarcely seen them, but once or twice...I did take Ray, and rode out to see Phil's cave. Surprised him. I left Ray below a little way and went on alone."

"You did!" exclaimed Endicott, surprised and pleased. "That was nice of you. What did you think of Phil's cave? I've been there, you know."

"An awful hole! Just suits him to a 'T.' He's a cave man. Don't you overlook that, darling Papa."

"Cave man? Phil Randolph! Why, he's the gentlest and mildest of men."

"Not so you'd notice it. At least for me," replied Janey, giggling. "No, Dad, you're vastly mistaken in Phil's character. He's a bad hombre."

"Did you quarrel?" Endicott probed, his curiosity overcoming his doubt of her.

"Oh, we scrapped as usual. He wasn't at all tickled to see me. Made some idiotic remarks about being a lover of beauty in woman--one woman. Naturally I kidded him, and when he got wise to that he was sore. Well, finally, to prove my interest in his old cave I climbed down in one of his graves. I took the pick and began to dig. Do you know, Dad, he didn't like that a bit."

Endicott let out a hearty laugh. "Janey, you are incorrigible. No wonder he wasn't tickled to see you. Why, he wouldn't let even me dig in one of those holes. Said I might break a piece of precious pottery. Besides in your case he wouldn't like you to soil your clothes and blister your hands."

"I should think he would have liked that," returned Janey. "Once he called me fastidious and elegant. Another time one of the idle rich. He held my hand once and had the nerve to say it was a beautiful useless thing. Well, to go on, he ordered me out of the grave. I paid no attention to him. Then he took hold of the pick, pulled me up till he could reach me. Next he yanked me out. Gentle? You should have seen him. But he let go of me too quick and I stumbled. Like a ninny I fell into his arms. Did he gently set me upon my feet? I should snicker not. This paragon of yours, this nice quiet gentleman, grabbed me and kissed me smack on my mouth--as I never was kissed in my whole life!"

Whereupon Janey's father exploded with mirth. Recovering and seeing her face he apologized contritely.

"Janey, it's just too good," he added. "I think a lot more of Phil for having the nerve to do it. I wonder, now, did that make you so happy?"

"Rot!" exclaimed Janey, with hot cheeks. "It wasn't nerve in him. He just went loco. Then he swore he'd never kissed any girl before. Fancy that?...Well, I've told you. I don't quite know what to do about it."

"I shall congratulate Phil on punishing you properly."

"I don't take punishment easily," said Janey, with menacing hauteur.

"Lord. Be easy on the poor chap, Janey."

Bennet interrupted them at this point and asked if they would require any or all of the cowboys for any especial trip the next few days.

"I want to drive some cattle out, an' reckon this is about the best time," he added. "I've got some tourist parties comin' soon, an' the boys will take them to Nonnezoshe. After that the rains will be here."

"Thanks, Bennet. We can do very well without the cowboys," returned Endicott, brightly. Janey guessed why her father felt so chipper about that news.

"Do you have a rainy season here on this desert?" inquired Janey, aghast.

"Nothin' to concern you, Miss," replied the trader. "Reckon you'll like the thunderstorms, the clouds an' rainbows. But for us the rains are sometimes bad, because the washes get full of water an' quicksand, so we can't move the stock."

"Thunderstorms? I love them. It will be great to be out in one here," said Janey.

Janey was lying in bed reading when she heard Randolph come in and go to his room. The hour was rather late for him. She wondered if he had gone supperless.

Next morning when she went in to breakfast her father and Randolph were there. If Janey had expected him to be downcast or embarrassed she had reckoned without her host. He was neither. He greeted her as if nothing unusual had occurred and he gave her a cool steady stare. Janey's quick intuition grasped that Randolph had burned his bridges behind him. It did not seem likely that her father could have had much to do with this late decision in Randolph. Janey had bidden him good night at his door, and he was not an early riser. So she concluded Randolph had fought out something with himself and the die was cast. It stirred Janey as had nothing she could recall. She was ready, even eager for the adventure.

"When is Bennet sending out the cowboys?" inquired Randolph.

"Today," replied Endicott, with a meaning glance at his young friend. "It'll be terrible for Janey to be left without anybody to pick on. Phil, suppose you knock off work and stay home to amuse her."

"Very happy to," returned the archaeologist. "I'm sure I can think up something that will amuse even the blasé Miss Endicott."

"You needn't concern yourself about me," said Janey, spiritedly. "And I'll have you know I'm not blasé. Did you ever see me look old or bored?"

"Certainly not old, but bored--yes indeed, and with your humble servant, myself."

"You don't bore me any more, Phillip," replied Janey. "You have become a mystery. Your possibilities are unlimited."

"Much obliged," rejoined Randolph, with nonchalance. "I hope I can live up to your idea of my development."

"When will you start amusing me?" asked Janey, with a provoking little smile.

"There's no time like the present."

"Very well, begin. You have only to be perfectly natural."

"That is what I thought. So I need not exert myself. After breakfast come with me for a walk. I know where to find some horned toads."

"How far is it?"

"Quite near. In the big wash over the ridge. But I advise you to change that child's dress for something comfortable and protecting."

"Goodness! This is a tennis skirt and blouse."

"Who'd guess it," returned Randolph, dryly. "Be ready in about an hour."

Janey went to her room. Phillip had been quite businesslike. She had fancied he would take her for a long ride someday, which would give him better opportunity to make off with her. Surely he would not attempt the abduction while on a short stroll near the post. But she felt uncertain about him. She had best be prepared. To this end she considered what it would be best to wear. If she donned riding clothes and boots, which she heartily wanted to do, it would rouse Randolph's suspicions. Outside of that all her clothes were unsuitable for the kind of a jaunt she was likely to have. She gave Randolph about one day and one night before fetching her back to the post. That, however, was long enough for his purpose, though she remembered her father hinting otherwise. Janey searched among her things, and finally found an old woolen outing skirt, absurdly short. It would have to do. She selected the heaviest stockings she could find, which were thin at that, tennis shoes, a blouse with high collar and long sleeves. She put on a soft felt hat and gloves. Then as an afterthought she slipped a vanity case into the pocket of her short sport coat, and tried to choose the things she would need badly, in case she were kidnaped. But pocket space was limited. Thus equipped, and full of suppressed mirth, yet not free from other agitation, she sallied forth to meet Mr. Randolph.

Janey knew she had occupied more than an hour, but she was surprised to find he was not waiting for her. Nor was her father anywhere in sight. "Something's up I'll bet," soliloquized Janey. She went out to see the cowboys ride away with Bennet. They were a disconsolate lot, and gazed at her from afar.

Upon her return to the house she met Randolph. His boots were dusty, and his face heated from exertion. He looked too grim and tense for a little walk. Unless he meant to propose to her! Or else carry out her father's plan. Janey knew it was one or the other; and she trembled. But Phil seemed too concerned with himself to note that she was not wholly at ease. And in another instant Janey regained composure.

"Here you are," he said, as he met her. "Glad you're a little more sensibly dressed."

"I thought maybe you'd have me digging round in the sand after horned toads," she replied.

"Daresay you'll be digging round for more than that before we get back."

He led her out the side exit of the yard, where the foliage of peach trees and the house obscured their departure from anyone who might have been looking from the post.

"Horned toads are really one of the wonders of the desert," he said, as he walked briskly out toward the rise of ground. "They have protective coloration. It is very difficult to see them. They are beautiful, with eyes like jewels. At rare times when angry one will emit blood from its eyes."

While he talked he was leading Janey up the ridge. Then in a few moments they were over and going down on the other side, out of sight of the post. He talked horned toads until he had exhausted his fund of natural history, then he switched to desert scenery. Janey knew he was only marking time, endeavoring to absorb her so that she would scarcely notice the distance they had come and that it was still far to any break in the floor of the desert. She helped him by listening intently. It was a full ten miles to the wash.

"Phil, didn't you say it was only a little walk?" she asked, innocently.

"Why, yes. Isn't it?"

"If you'd ask me I'd say it was long. Where do we go from here?" returned Janey, gazing down into the sandy void. There was no trail she could see, though in the sand just below she discerned horse tracks. Randolph jumped down off the bank to the slope, which was several feet under the level.

"Come," he said, and Janey detected a slight change of tone.

"Gee. I can't get down there," she replied, fearfully.

"If you won't let me lift you down, why, slide."

"Slide!--Mr. Randolph, I'm not a baseball player."

Quick as a flash, then, he reached for her, clasped her knees and lifted her so that she fell over his shoulder.

"Oh!" cried Janey, in genuine surprise. How powerful he was! She might have been a sack of potatoes. He carried her several strides down before Janey began to protest and squirm. She would have kicked if her legs had been free. At any rate her struggle and the steep soft slope of sand caused Randolph to lose his balance and fall sidewise. Janey rolled off his shoulder and sat up. Randolph stumbled to his feet, and seeing her sitting there wide-eyed and blank he burst into laughter. Janey could not help following suit.

"Mr. Randolph, is this how you hunt horned toads?" she asked sternly.

"No. But why did you overbalance me? I could have packed you down to the bottom."

"My position was scarcely dignified. In the future if it is necessary to pack me, as you call it, please give me a moment to prepare."

"All right. Come on. Let's see if you're any good on seven-league boots," he said, and strode down with giant steps.

Janey tried to imitate him, succeeded admirably, and reached the bottom of the wash in good time.

"My shoes are full of sand," she announced, and sat down to remove them.

"Don't let a little thing like that fuss you. It may happen again."

"You're quite gay, all of a sudden," remarked Janey, as she shook the sand out of her shoes.

"Yes. Why not? It's something to see Miss Janey Endicott as she is this morning," he responded, eying her with a glint of admiration.

"I suppose you mean me in this short skirt," she returned, calmly. "But you needn't look. It was the only old thing I had."

Soon she was following him down the wash. It appeared to be quite deep, with a dry stream bed of rock and gravel at the bottom. Desert plants grew sparsely along the banks. Randolph did not look back nor speak, and he walked a little too swiftly for Janey who lost a few paces. Presently they turned a corner, and Janey spotted what she had been expecting--two saddled horses. Later she saw another animal carrying a pack.

Janey plodded on, pretending not to see them. How foolish! Nevertheless she was aware of a palpitating heart, of a rush of blood, of prickling skin. A quick glance up showed Randolph had halted beside the horses. Janey strove to find wits and nerve to meet this situation as she had planned. Where was her anger? It had oozed out of her trembling finger tips. But that was only momentary. Sight of Randolph rallied her courage. She would deceive him, punish him and her father if it took all the spirit and endurance she could muster.

"Whose horses?" asked Janey, as she reached Randolph, and sat down on the slope of sand. She did not look at him directly. "It's pretty warm--for a short walk. When do we hunt horned toads?"

As he did not answer she glanced up at him. Assuredly he was tense and altogether too pale. Janey suddenly realized that despite what he had undertaken he was afraid of her and of the outrageous indignity he had been persuaded to attempt. That acted as a spur to her. It was the stimulus she needed.

"What's the matter, Phil? You look strange. Your eyes! You're staring at me. It's the second time. I can't complain of lack of attention right now."

"Better late than never."

"Come here, Mr. Archaeologist. I won't hurt you," said Janey, beckoning.

"You want me? Over there?"

"Ah--huh!"

"You're taking a chance. I've become a--a bad man," he returned, doggedly, as if he needed to convince himself.

"Since when? Since that episode at the cave? Well, if you repeat that your end will be near...I asked you whom these horses belonged to?"

"They're mine."

"Yours!--What are they doing here--saddled? Surely we don't need this outfit to hunt horned toads."

"Janey, that about the toads--was a lie," he returned, haltingly. "It was a trick to get you away from the post."

"A trick? How thrilling! Well, now you've so basely deceived me and got me here--what are you going to do with me?"

"I've--kidnaped--you," he declared, huskily.

Janey laughed merrily. "Oh, I remember. You were to amuse me. Fine, Phil! I suppose you planned a little ride and picnic for me. But my dear man, I can't ride in this skirt."

"You can't walk, so you'll have to ride," he returned.

"Have to! Say, Phil, this is getting to be more than a joke. I can stand a lot of fun. But horseback in this knee-high skirt? Nothing doing!"

"It's not a joke, Janey. I'm in deadly earnest. You're going with me willingly--or otherwise."

"Indeed! Isn't that sweet of you? Lovely little all-day party, eh?"

"We will not return tonight."

"Mr. Randolph!" she exclaimed, coldly. That was the crucial moment for Phillip Randolph. His face paled.

"Are you drunk or mad?" she added, icily.

"Both! Drunk with your beauty--mad for love of you," he replied, hoarsely.

"It would seem so," said Janey. She turned her back upon him and started to walk away. Then he seized her by the shoulders, whirled her round and forced her back to the shade.

"If you run it'll only be the worse for you," he warned, releasing her.

"You beast!" cried Janey, wheeling. "Let me go."

Randolph confronted her, and when she tried to get by he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a good hard shove. Janey staggered backward. The sand was soft and deep. She lost her balance and suddenly fell on the slope, thus losing coat and sombrero. This was most undignified. Yet Janey wanted to laugh. She sat there, blazing up at him, in a gathering might of wrath.

"Beast or anything you like," said Randolph, darkly. "But you go with me, if I have to throw you on that horse."

"Father will beat you for this."

"No doubt. But it will be too late."

"And the cowboys will do worse."

"Yes. But I shall have queered you with them."

Janey got to her feet and stepped close to Randolph. There was now a dangerous gleam in his eye--a wild dark light. He had gotten by the most difficult part for him--the announcement of his intention. Janey saw that he did not expect any serious trouble with her. How she would fool him!

"Don't you dare lay a hand on me again," she said, passionately.

"I hope it won't be necessary. But you get on this horse."

"No!"

"I tell you--"

Janey rushed to pass him, yet was not quick enough. He caught her arm. As he swung her around she gave him a terrific slap on the side of the face. Randolph dropped her arm. His hand went to his cheek which was as red as fire. It seemed realization was upon him, augmenting shame and fury. Janey realized that but for her blow he might have betrayed himself and given up this outrageous affair.

"You--you struck me," he said, hoarsely, and suddenly snatched out and caught her left arm.

"Sure I did, Mr. Hoodlum," rejoined Janey. "And I'll do it again. Did you think you'd get away with this so easy? There!" And she struck him quick and hard, this time with a tight little fist.

"Wildcat!" shouted Randolph, roused to battle, and then he closed with her. Janey was strong, lithe, supple as a panther, and she fought him fiercely. It was no longer pretense. The rough contact of his hands and her own violent action brought her blood up, gushing and hot. He was endeavoring to subdue her and she was struggling to get away. At the same time she beat and tore at him with all her might. She scratched his face. She got both hands in his hair and pulled. Naturally the fight could not last long, for he was overpowering her. When he got his left arm under her right and around her waist to grasp her left he had her nearly helpless. Then he put his other arm under her knees and lifted her.

His hair stood up like the mane of a lion; his face was bloody from the scratches; his eyes gleamed with fire.

"My God!" he panted. "Who'd have--thought it in you."

"Let me down!" cried Janey, straining and writhing.

"Will you get--on that horse?"

"No--you wild-west boob!"

"Boob?--Ha! Ha! You've hit it," he replied, wildly. "Very well--my Eastern princess--take this from the Western boob." He bent his head and kissed her quickly then again, crushing his hot lips on hers.

"I'll--kill--you!" gasped Janey, when she could speak.

"Kill and be damned. I wish you would," he returned, passionately. Then he surrendered to the contact and possession of her. Clasping her tight he rained kisses on her lips and neck. Janey felt the wet blood from his scratched face on her cheek. Her muscles grew rigid. She was like bent steel about to spring. Suddenly she sank limp. His passion had overcome her where his strength had failed. But Janey did not lose her wits. It was as if she knew she had to keep playing her part. Yet her collapse and the shaking of her relaxed body had nothing to do with reasoning. He had surprised her into the primitiveness of a savage. The change in her reaction struck him, and he released her.

Janey slipped down, as it chanced, to her knees. The thing could not have happened better.

"I--I--understand now," gasped Janey. "You mean--to--"

"My God!" cried Randolph, staggering back, in horror.

"Phillip," went on Janey, piteously. "I--I'm not the girl I--I've made you believe. This is as much--my fault--as yours. But have mercy. Don't be a brute."

"Shut up!" shouted Randolph, his face changing to a dusky red.

He backed against a stone and sat down, to cover his face with his hands, deeply and terribly shaken.

Janey sank back herself, to rest a moment, and to straighten her disheveled apparel. Her rage had died a sudden death. She was still conscious of disturbing unfamiliar sensations, which, however, were gradually subsiding. Much had happened that had not been down on the program. She realized that Randolph had not intended even the least insult, let alone the assault on her. And certainly in her plan Janey had not dreamed of making him think she believed him capable of more. Even at that troubled moment Janey realized that more could come of this incident than had been expected. Both of them were trifling with deep and unknown instincts. They might pass from jest to earnest. But Randolph had not the slightest inkling of Janey's duplicity.

"You've blood on your face," said Randolph, suddenly.

"Yes, it's yours. If I had my way I'd have your blood on my hands," returned Janey, murderously.

"Wipe it off," he ordered, getting up.

Janey produced a wisp of a handkerchief. "Where is it?" she asked.

"On your cheek--the left one. Here, let me rub it off. That inch-square rag is no good." He had a silk scarf, which he used to remove the blood from her cheek. He applied considerable force, and his action was that of a man trying to remove a stain of guilt.

"You scratched me like--like a wildcat," he said, harshly.

"Did you expect me to purr?" she returned, with sarcasm. Then she rose to her feet. "You tore my sleeve half off. I hope you happen to have a needle and thread."

Ignoring her facetiousness he picked up her coat and sombrero, and handed them to her.

"Get on that horse," he ordered.

CHAPTER 5

Without comment and as one subdued Janey went up to the horse and mounted. Her skirt slipped halfway above her knees. She stood in the stirrups and pulled it down, but at best it was so short that it exposed several inches of bare skin above her stockings.

"Is this supposed to be a movie or a leg show?" she asked, bitingly.

"I can't help it if you've no decent clothes," he replied.

"Why didn't you suggest I wear my riding clothes?"

"I didn't think of that. But you'd have suspected something."

"Me? No. I'm much too stupid. If I had been capable of thinking I'd have known you were a villain...To force a girl to ride a horse with her dress--this way!"

"I don't care how you look," he flashed, hotly, stung at her retort. "At that you don't look much worse than usual."

He picked up Janey's coat, which she had dropped, and hung it on the pommel, and draped it over her knees.

"That'll keep you from sunburn, at least."

"You're very thoughtful and kind, Mr. Randolph," said Janey, sweetly. "And may I inquire our destination?"

"Start up the wash," he rejoined, gruffly. "You take the lead."

"Want to watch me, eh? You think I might run off? I note you've given me a plug of a horse that probably never ran in its life."

"You might do anything, Miss Endicott," he said.

"What wonderful trust you have in me!" exclaimed Janey.

Whereupon she rode on up the deepening gully. Randolph followed her, leading the pack horse.

So the great adventure was actually on! Janey could not have believed it but for the bruises she had sustained in the fight with Randolph, and her torn blouse, and this ridiculous skirt that had begun to have resemblance to a ballet dancer's.

After she had taken stock of her physical state she delved a bit into the mental. She found she was still trembling ever so slightly. Her heart beat high. And her mind was racing. She was stirred by bitterness toward her father, and resentment toward this man who had been led to believe she was no good and needed this kind of a lesson. They thought they had her number, mused Janey, defiantly. Pretty but vain! Intelligent, yet too languorous to think or work! Adorable, though probably immoral! Modern, still there were hopes!

An alarming thought struck her which she had experienced vaguely before. It was barely possible that these accusations were justified. Janey swore, and refused to listen to such a treacherous voice.

Something more pleasant to dwell upon was a genuine pity for Randolph. He had been a perfectly straightforward, fine and promising young man until he met her father. He was now in line to become a first-rate villain. No doubt when Janey finally divorced him there would be no hope whatever. She decided, in order to make it impossible that he ever could recover, she would delay the divorce proceeding for a time--and meanwhile be very sweet and sorrowful and might-have-been-loving to him, so that he would be abjectly crushed.

Her meditations on this phase of the experience were decidedly pleasant. And it was most agreeable to be on horseback again. She had been rather unjust to the horse, for he was turning out to be docile, easy-gaited and willing. He had struck into a trail which wound up the gorge.

The walls were perceptibly higher and changing their character somewhat. The sand slopes were disappearing. Presently this wash turned at right angles and opened into a canyon. It was deep, yellow-walled, and rugged, and through the center of it meandered a thin stream of water. Janey believed this creek was the Sagi, which she had crossed a number of times above. But she had not seen this canyon. The very sight of it was exciting and disturbing. There was sure to be quicksand. Janey hoped she would have some narrow escapes, so that she would find out what Randolph was made of. If no risks came along naturally she would make some.

The sand in the creek bed, however, was disappointingly solid. In the next hour Janey crossed this water a dozen or more times, without a mishap. Her horse was a much better judge of places than she. Meanwhile the canyon grew wider and deeper.

It also grew hot. Janey began to feel the burn of the sun. And as the movement of the horse often jolted her coat from its protective service her knees began to get red. This was a novelty, and she was divided between concern and a satisfaction that she could presently show Randolph more objective proofs of his cruelty.

Unobtrusively, at moments when the trail made a short turn, she saw Randolph in the rear. He did not look in the least like a bold bad man. He drooped. Apparently he did not see her, let alone watch closely against any attempt she might make to escape. Perhaps he was disgusted now and hoped she would run off. This was embarrassing. Janey did not want to escape. She was getting a tremendous kick out of being kidnaped. But she would not let him know that. She considered the advisability of attempting to get away. It did not strike her favorably. If Randolph did not or would not catch her, there would be something of a different predicament. She would be lost, unless she could go back as they had come.

Janey rejected the idea. Too much risk! And she adopted another, equally feminine, and very much better. When a turn of the trail hid her from Randolph's sight she selected a soft place in the sand and slid off her horse, careful to make it look as if she had fallen.

Presently she heard the hoofs of Randolph's horse padding closer. Then Janey made herself look as much like a limp sack as she could. From under the brim of her sombrero she saw him come into sight. He gave a violent start. Leaping out of the saddle he ran to her. His action, his look were unaccountably sweet to Janey. It was hard to close her eyes.

Evidently he stopped to gaze down upon her a moment, for there was a silence, then he knelt to lay a hand on her shoulder.

"Now, what's the matter?" he inquired, with more doubt than sympathy.

Janey stirred and sat up.

"I fell off my horse," she said.

"What for?"

"Guess I got dizzy or something. You must have hurt me internally. Or I wrenched my side--anyway I had a terrible pain."

"That's too bad. I'm sorry. I never calculated on any weakness, physical or mental." He was studying her face with deep inscrutable eyes, and despite his words he was not sympathetic.

"Weak! Why I'm bordering on nervous collapse right now," returned Janey.

"Ye