Ridley had come to town only two days before. Ever since the robbery he had kept a lone camp on Turkey Creek. There was plenty of game for the shooting, and in that vast emptiness of space he could nurse his wounded self-respect. But he had run out of flour and salt. Because Tascosa was farther from the A T O ranch than Clarendon he had chosen it as a point to buy supplies. The owner of the corral had offered him a job, and he had taken it. He had not supposed that Ramona was within a hundred miles of the spot. The last thing in the world he wanted was to meet her, but there was no help for it now. Her aunt carried to Ramona the word that a man was waiting outside with a message from her father. When she came down the porch steps, there were still traces of tear-stains on her cheeks. In the gathering dusk she did not at first recognize the man at the gate. She moved forward doubtfully, a slip of a slender-limbed girl, full of the unstudied charm and grace of youth. Halfway down the path she stopped, her heart beating a little faster. Could this wan and ragged man with the unkempt beard be Art Ridley, always so careful of his clothes and his personal appearance? She was a child of impulse. Her sympathy went out to him with a rush, and she streamed down the path to meet him. A strong, warm little hand pressed his. A flash of soft eyes irradiated him. On her lips was the tender smile that told him she was still his friend. "Where in the world have you been?" she cried. "And what have you been doing to yourself?" His blood glowed at the sweetness of her generosity. "I've been--camping." With the shyness and the boldness of a child she pushed home her friendliness. "Why don't you ever come to see a fellow any more?" He did not answer that, but plunged at his mission. "Miss Ramona, I've got bad news for you. Your father has been hurt--not very badly, I think. He told me to tell you that the wound was only a slight one." 'Mona went white to the lips. "How?" she whispered. "The Dinsmores shot him. The men are bringing him here." He caught her in his arms as she reeled. For a moment her little head lay against his shoulder and her heart beat against his. "A trifling flesh-wound, your father called it," went on Ridley. "He said you were to get a bed ready for him, and fix bandages." She steadied herself and beat back the wave of weakness that had swept over her. "Yes," she said. "I'll tell Aunt. Have they sent for the doctor?" "Quint Sullivan went." A wagon creaked. 'Mona flew into the house to tell her aunt, and out again to meet her father. Her little ankles flashed down the road. Agile as a boy, she climbed into the back of the buckboard. "Oh, Dad!" she cried in a broken little voice, and her arms went round him in a passion of love. He was hurt worse than he was willing to admit to her. "It's all right, honeybug. Doc Bridgman will fix me up fine. Yore old dad is a mighty live sinner yet."