Her inveteracy discouraged him. His good looks, his debonair manner, the magnetic charm he knew how to exert--these, which had availed him with other women, did not seem to reach her at all. She really gave him no chance to prove himself. He was ready to be grave or gay--to be a light-hearted boy or a blase man of the world--to adopt any role that would suit her. But how could one play up effectively to a chill silence which took no note of him, to a depression of the soul which would not let itself be lifted? He felt that she was living up to the barest letter of the law in fulfilling their contract, and because of it he steeled himself against her sufferings. There was one moment of their ride when she stood on the tiptoe of expectation and showed again the sparkle of eager life. MacQueen had resaddled after their luncheon, and they were climbing a long sidehill that looked over a dry valley. With a gesture, the outlaw checked her horse. "Look!" Some quarter of a mile from them two men were riding up a wash that ran through the valley. The mesquite and the cactus were thick, and it was for only an occasional moment that they could be seen. Black and the girl were screened from view by a live oak in front of them, so that there was no danger of being observed. The outlaw got out his field glasses and watched the men intently. Melissy could not contain the question that trembled on her lips: "Do you know them?" "I reckon not." "Perhaps----" "Well!" "May I look--please?" He handed her the glasses. She had to wait for the riders to reappear, but when they did she gave a little cry. "It's Mr. Bellamy!" "Oh, is it?" He looked at her steadily, ready to crush in her throat any call she might utter for help. But he soon saw that she had no intention of making her presence known. Her eyes were glued to the glasses. As long as the men were in sight she focused her gaze on them ravenously. At last a bend in the dry river bed hid them from view. She lowered the binoculars with a sigh. "Lucky they didn't see us," he said, with his easy, sinister laugh. "Lucky for them." She noticed for the first time that he had uncased his rifle and was holding it across the saddle-tree. Night slipped silently down from the hills--the soft, cool, velvet night of the Arizona uplands. The girl drooped in the saddle from sheer exhaustion. The past few days had been hard ones, and last night she had lost most of her sleep. She had ridden far on rough trails, had been subjected to a stress of emotion to which her placid maiden life had been unused. But she made no complaint. It was part of the creed she had unconsciously learned from her father to game out whatever had to be endured.