"I think," said Scott, rising, "that before it grows dark I'll investigate this trail a bit. It looks sort of blind to me. If we have to start by moonlight it'll be just as well to have some notion of where to begin." Polly leaned back against a tree and watched him lazily. He looked very strong and capable. She recalled Joyce Henderson's graceful proportions and smiled. She had had to come a long way to find the man she wanted but she was well content. It was odd, she reflected, that she and Joyce Henderson, who had known each other all their lives, were like strangers once they attempted the more intimate relation; while for this man whom she had known but a few weeks she felt a sense of familiarity, of belongingness, that she could scarcely believe. She was trusting him now in a way that she had never imagined herself trusting any man and yet she felt at ease. Scott, returning, threw himself down beside her. "I've found the trail," he said, "but we've got some traveling ahead of us. Don't look to me as if anybody'd been over it since Gomez was." "Didn't those men come this way?" "No. They must have hit the trail lower down--from some place we've missed. I'll swear no crowd like that have been where I've just been." The girl looked at him gravely. "Do you think we ought to go back?" "Back? No, I don't. Those folks are waiting for us at Soria's and I want to get Tom started for them as soon as I can." "I wonder if those men will make any trouble at Soria's?" "I don't believe so. If it was Angel Gonzales, he's heading for your gentleman friend's place and he'll be in a hurry." "Why do you go on calling him my gentleman friend?" "Well, you think he's some kind of a guy, don't you?" demanded Scott, with a grin. "Pretty manners, soft voice, nice long eyelashes--all that kind of thing?" "Yes, I do," replied Polly, stoutly. "I like Juan Pachuca and I believe he's been led away by bad company. I believe what he told me about that treasure, too. I only wish I'd made him tell me the name of the border town where it was." "Women are queer," remarked Scott, with more truth than originality. "Well, Polly Street, I think I'll gather the wood for your fire." Together they gathered the loose twigs and branches--they were not many, but eked out with pine cones would make a fire for a few hours, and Scott made Polly's bed close by it. He put his rubber poncho on the ground and made the girl wrap herself in both blankets. "I've got a heavy sweater under my coat," he said, "and I'll have to keep moving a good deal to look after the horses and keep the fire going." And he refused to take a blanket, much to Polly's dismay. "Curl up and be comfortable, girlie, and relax. It don't matter if you don't sleep if you can relax."