He struck his pony sharply, and descended the trail. Half a mile on he stopped, uttered an exclamation, leaped from his saddle, and knelt beside the quiet form of a woman. She was lying in a matted clump of scrub oak, where the horse had probably thrown her. Carefully he drew an arm away from her face. There was a cut above her closed eyes, and the crimson had run down over her cheek, staining the lace on her collar. She seemed so quiet, so very white, that for the instant Nash believed she was dead. It was only when he took his handkerchief and wiped her forehead that she sighed and allowed her eyes to flutter open. “Just in time,” he said encouragingly. “Not hurt much, I hope?” She seemed conscious suddenly of where she was, and of what had happened. She sat up and passed a limp hand across her eyes. “I--I guess not,” she faltered unsteadily. “My horse threw me. I--I remember falling, and then----” “Your forehead’s cut,” Nash said; “not very deep, though. You’ve this brush here to thank for your escape. If you had fallen to these rocks, there would have been real damage.” He helped her up. She was a trifle dizzy at first, but it soon wore away. She allowed him to bind his handkerchief about her head. “There!” he said, finishing with the improvised bandage. “That will keep the dust out. Do you live near here?” She nodded. “Over at the Elkhorn Ranch.” “I should advise you to get back as quickly as you can,” he told her. “Have the wound washed and dressed. I don’t think there’s a drop of water this side of the camp.” “Oh,” she said, turning quickly to face him, “you’re from the construction camp, then?” “Yes, from Forty-seven, about two miles down the trail. I was just going back when your horse dashed past me.” Her eyes were shining now, and a quick color had rushed to her cheeks. Nash told himself that it had been a long time since he had seen a prettier girl. He reasoned quickly, by the hue of her skin, that she was a stranger to this part of southern California. “You haven’t been here long, have you?” he said. She shook her head. “No. This is my first day at the ranch. I’m visiting friends there.” She hesitated a moment, and looked frankly into his bronzed face. “How did you guess?” He laughed. “Why, this sun will leave its mark on you. It’s the champion long-distance artist. You’ll soon change that New York white for California copper.” She stared at him bewilderedly. “How did you know I was from New York?” she asked. “Well,” he admitted. “I haven’t been away from there long myself. I thought you were from the East by your accent.” “You’re a regular fortune teller,” she replied, smiling; and he laughed. “Now, you take my pony and ride along to the ranch,” he said. “It’s only a short walk for me--by cutting across the hill yonder. You can return the mount to-morrow, or any time convenient. Meanwhile, I’ll keep an eye out for your horse.”