Her mount was a spirited, mouse-dun mustang, with crop-ears, a roached mane, and the back markings of an Arab horse. She always rode at a run, sitting with easy erectness. A wide army hat rested snugly on her fair hair, and shaded a white forehead and level-looking eyes. But notwithstanding the sheltering brim, on her girlish face were set the glowing scarlet seals of wind and sun. As he peered townward after her, Fong Wu heard the hurrying hoof beats grow gradually fainter and fainter--and cease. Presently the moon topped the pines on the foothills behind him, bathing the gulch in light. The road down which she would come sprang into view. He watched its farthest open point. In a few moments the hoof beats began again. Soon the glint of a light waist showed through the trees. Next, horse and rider rounded a curve at hand. Fong Wu leaned far forward. And then, just as the mustang gained the strip of road before the square-fronted house, it gave a sudden, unlooked-for, outward leap, reared with a wild snort, and, whirling, dashed past the porch--riderless. With an exclamation, Fong Wu flung his banjo aside and ran to the road. There under a manzanita bush, huddled and still, lay a figure. He caught it up, bore it to the porch, and put it gently down. A brief examination, made with the deftness practice gives, showed him that no bones were broken. Squatting beside the unconscious woman, he next played slowly with his long-nailed fingers upon her pulse. Its beat reassured him. He lighted a lamp and held it above her. The scarlet of her cheeks was returning. The sight of her, who was so strong and active, stretched weak and fainting, compelled Fong Wu into spoken comment. “The petal of a plum blossom,” he said compassionately, in his own tongue. She stirred a little. He moved back. As, reviving, she opened her eyes, they fell upon him. But he was half-turned away, his face as blank and lifeless as a mask. She gave a startled cry and sat up. “Me hurtee?” she asked him, adopting pidgin-English. “Me fallee off?” Fong Wu rose. “You were thrown,” he answered gravely. She coloured in confusion. “Pardon me,” she said, “for speaking to you as if you were a coolie.” Then, as she got feebly to her feet--“I believe my right arm is broken.” “I have some knowledge of healing,” he declared; “let me look at it.” Before she could answer, he had ripped the sleeve away. “It is only a sprain,” he said. “Wait.” He went inside for an amber liquid and bandages. When he had laved the injured muscles, he bound them round. “How did it happen?” she asked, as he worked. He was so courteous and professional that her alarm was gone. “Your horse was frightened by a rattlesnake in the road. I heard it whir.” She shuddered. “I ought to be thankful that I didn’t come my cropper on it,” she said, laughing nervously. He went inside again, this time to prepare a cupful of herbs. When he offered her the draught, she screwed up her face over its nauseating fumes.