“I know that a heap better than you do, colonel,” said Bucky dryly. “But if it was good enough for me and my pardner, here, I reckon it’s good enough for them. Anyhow, we’ll let them try it, won’t we, Frank.” “If you think best, Bucky.” “You bet I do.” “And what about the governor’s daughter?” asked Gabilonda. “You don’t say! Is she a guest of this tavern?” The colonel explained how they had reached the prison and the circumstances that had led to their hurried flight, while the ranger whistled the air of a cowboy song, his mind busy with this new phase of the case. “She’s one of these here Spanish blue-blooded señoritas used to guitar serenades under her window. Now, what would you do with her in a jail, Bucky?” he asked himself, in humorous dismay; but even as he reflected on it his roving eye fell on his friend. “The very thing. I’ll take Curly Haid in to her and let them fall in love with each other. You’re liable to be some busy, Bucky, and shy on leisure to entertain a lady, let alone two.” And so he arranged it. Leaving the former governor and General Carlo in the cell just vacated by them, Frances and he accompanied Gabilonda to the secret room behind the corridor wall. All three parties to the introduction that followed acknowledged secretly to a surprise. Miss Carmencita had expected the friend of big, rough, homely O’Halloran to resemble him in kind, at least. Instead, she looked on a bronzed young Apollo of the saddle with something of that same lithe grace she knew and loved in Juan Valdez. And the shy boy beside him—why, the darling was sweet enough to kiss. The big, brown, helpless eyes, the blushing, soft cheeks, the crop of thick, light curls were details of an extraordinarily taking picture. Really, if these two were fair specimens, Americans were not so bad, after all. Which conclusion Juan Valdez’s fondness for that race may have helped in part to form.