She busied herself over the fire inspecting the iron. The man watched her curiously. What could it mean? A cow killed wantonly, a calf bawling with pain and fear, and this girl responsible for it. The tenderfoot could not down the suspicion stirring in his mind. He knew little of the cattle country. But he had read books and had spent a week in Mesa not entirely in vain. The dead cow with the little stain of red down its nose pointed surely to one thing. He was near enough to see a hole in the forehead just above the eyes. Instinctively his gaze passed to the rifle lying in the sand close to his hand. Her back was still turned to him. He leaned over, drew the gun to him, and threw out an empty shell from the barrel. At the click of the lever the girl swung around upon him. "What are you doing?" she demanded. He put the rifle down hurriedly. "Just seeing what make it is." "And what make is it?" she flashed. He was trapped. "I hadn't found out yet," he stammered. "No, but you found out there was an empty shell in it," she retorted quickly. Their eyes fastened. She was gray as ashes, but she did not flinch. By chance he had stumbled upon the crime of crimes in Cattleland, had caught a rustler redhanded at work. Looking into the fine face, nostrils delicately fashioned, eyes clear and deep, the thing was scarce credible of her. Why, she could not be a day more than twenty, and in every line of her was the look of pride, of good blood. "Yes, I happened to throw it out," he apologized. But she would have no evasion, would not let his doubts sleep. There was superb courage in the scornful ferocity with which she retorted. "Happened! And I suppose you _happened_ to notice that the brand on the cow is a Bar Double G, while that on the calf is different." "No, I haven't noticed that." "Plenty of time to see it yet." Then, with a swift blaze of feeling, "What's the use of pretending? I know what you think." "Then you know more than I do. My thoughts don't go any farther than this, that you have saved my life and I'm grateful for it." "I know better. You think I'm a rustler. But don't say it. Don't you dare say it." Brought up in an atmosphere of semi-barbaric traditions, silken-strong, with instincts unwarped by social pressure, she was what the sun and wind and freedom of Arizona had made her, a poetic creation far from commonplace. So he judged her, and in spite of the dastardly thing she had done he sensed an innate refinement strangely at variance with the circumstances. "All right. I won't," he answered, with a faint smile. "Now you've got to pay for your sandwiches by making yourself useful. I'm going to finish this job." She said it with an edge of self-scorn. He guessed her furious with self-contempt.