"All right, Betty," he said. "I'll follow your lead a little way, but be cautious, old girl, and don't tie up to any lying hunches." He slackened his hold on the bridle, and the mare started off eagerly. They climbed a hill, and presently Conrad was aware of a black mass before him. Putting out his hand he felt an adobe wall. The mare crowded close against it, and stopped. She had left the road, which took the hill at a long sloping angle from the foot of the rise, and had climbed straight up the steep incline. He felt his way around the corner, unfastened the door, and entered. An emphatic "Whew!" gave vent to his feeling of relief. The mare, close at his heels, snorted in response, and Curtis, smiling in the dark, threw his arm across her neck in fellowship and said, "Feels good, doesn't it, Betty B., to get out of that hurricane from hell?" By the light of a lantern he led the mare to the spring, stabling her afterward in one of the houses. "In the best society, Betty Brown," he explained, "it's not considered good form for horses to sleep in men's houses. But you deserve the best I can give you to-night, blest if you don't, old girl, and you shall have it, too." He gathered together, for her food and her bed, the alfalfa hay from several of the bunks, and found for her also a small measure of oats. Then, having attended to her wants, he looked about for something to stay his own hunger. It was his custom to keep some canned provisions in the place, as the station was much used by his men. On a little smouldering fire in one corner of the room, he made some tea in a tin can. A frying-pan hung against the wall, and in it, awkwardly fumbling with his one useful hand, he contrived to warm a stew of tinned _chile con carne_ and pilot bread. Fine sand drifted in and settled in a red dust over the food as he ate, and he could feel its grit between his teeth. The bird he had carried in his bosom he found to be a Southwestern tanager. Its pinkish-red plumage shone with a silvery radiance in the lamplight. One of its legs was broken, and one wing had been injured. "I'll take it to Miss Bancroft," he said aloud, "and she'll care for it till it can shift for itself again, poor little devil!" With intense satisfaction Conrad at last sat down to the letter in which he had all day been longing to express his feelings. "I wonder," he thought, "if Dellmey Baxter did it because he don't like the things I say about him. Well, he'll have to get used to it, then, for I'm not going to quit." There was a grim smile on his face as he wrote: