“We use what is called the squaw hitch,” the girl informed him from the trail just above his head. “If you cut that forward rope I think you can loosen the whole thing. The knot is on top of the pack, and of course Deacon’s lying on it.” A moment later she added, “I’ll go after Pickles, unless I can be of some use to you.” Privately, Rawley thought that she was useful as a relief to the eyes, if nothing else. But he told her that he could get along all right, and let her go. The girl piqued his interest; she was undoubtedly beautiful, with her slim, erect figure, her clear, hazel eyes with straight eyebrows, heavy lashes, and her lips that were firm for all their soft curves. But Johnny Buffalo’s life might be hanging on Rawley’s haste. However beautiful, however much she might attract his interest, no girl could tempt him from the chief issue. By the time she returned with Pickles, Rawley had retrieved Deacon and was gone down the trail with him. She came up in time to help him lift Johnny Buffalo on the burro and tie him there with the pack rope. She was efficient as a man, and almost as strong, Rawley observed. And although she treated the squaw with careful deference, she was plainly the head of their little expedition,--and the shoulders and the brains. Only once did the squaw speak on the way to the river. The girl was walking alongside Deacon, steadying Johnny Buffalo on that side while Rawley held the other. They were talking easily now, of impersonal things; and when, on a short climb, the burro stepped sharply to one side and Johnny Buffalo lurched toward the girl, Rawley slipped his arm farther behind the Indian. His fingers clasped for an instant the girl’s hand. The squaw, walking heavily behind, saw the brief contact. “Nevada! You shall not be so bold,” she cried in Pahute. “Take away your hand from the white man.” The girl turned her head and answered sharply in the same tongue and afterwards smiled across at Rawley, meeting his eyes with perfect frankness. “Yes, my name is Nevada. I’ll save you the trouble of asking,” she said calmly. “El Dorado Nevada Macalister, if you want it all at once. Luckily, no one ever attempts to call me all of it. My parents were loyal, romantic, and had an ear for euphony.” “Were?” The small impertinence slipped out in spite of Rawley; but fortunately she did not seem to mind. “Yes. My father was caught in a cave-in in the Quartette Mine when I was a baby. Mother died when I was six. I have a beautiful, impractical name--and not much else--to remember them by. I’ve lived with Grandfather and Grandmother; except, of course, what time I have been in school.” She gave him another quick look behind Johnny Buffalo’s back. “And your autobiography?”