“And you’re a gentleman,” returned the governor, with a bow, “I could find it in my heart to hang high as Haman without love or hate.” Michael linked his arm in that of his excellency. “Sure, you’re a broth of a lad, Señor Megales,” he said irreverently, in good, broad Irish brogue. “Here, me bye, where are you hurrying?” he added, catching at the sleeve of Frances Mackenzie, who was slipping quietly past. “Please, Mr. O’Halloran, I’ve been up to the office after water. I’m taking it to Señorita Carmencita.” “She doesn’t want water just now. You go back to the office, son, and stay there thirty minutes. Then you take her that water,” ordered O’Halloran. “But she wanted it as soon as I could get it, sir.” “Forget it, kid, just as she has. Water! Why, she’s drinking nectar of the gods. Just you do as I tell ye.” Frances was puzzled, but she obeyed, even though she could not understand his meaning. She understood better when she slid back the panel at the expiration of the allotted time and caught a glimpse of Carmencita Megales in the arms of Juan Valdez. CHAPTER XVII. HIDDEN VALLEY Across the desert into the hills, where the sun was setting in a great splash of crimson in the saddle between two distant peaks, a bunch of cows trailed heavily. Their tongues hung out and they panted for water, stretching their necks piteously to low now and again. For the heat of an Arizona summer was on the baked land and in the air that palpitated above it. But the end of the journey was at hand and the cowpuncher in charge of the drive relaxed in the saddle after the easy fashion of the vaquero when he is under no tension. He did not any longer cast swift, anxious glances behind him to make sure no pursuit was in sight. For he had reached safety. He knew the ‘Open sesame’ to that rock wall which rose sheer in front of him. Straight for it he and his companion took their gather, swinging the cattle adroitly round a great slab which concealed a gateway to the secret cañon. Half a mile up this defile lay what was called Hidden Valley, an inaccessible retreat known only to those who frequented it for nefarious purposes. It was as the man in charge circled round to head the lead cows in that a faint voice carried to him. He stopped, listening. It came again, a dry, parched call for help that had no hope in it. He wheeled his pony as on a half dollar, and two minutes later caught sight of an exhausted figure leaning against a cottonwood. He needed no second guess to surmise that she was lost and had been wandering over the sandy desert through the hot day. With a shout, he loped toward her, and had his water bottle at her lips before she had recovered from her glad surprise at sight of him. “You’ll feel better now,” he soothed. “How long you been lost, ma’am?”