Madeline Hammond leaned weakly back in her seat, cold and sick, and for a moment her ears throbbed to the tramp of the dancers across the way and the rhythm of the cheap music. Then into the open door-place flashed a girl’s tragic face, lighted by dark eyes and framed by dusky hair. The girl reached a slim brown hand round the side of the door and held on as if to support herself. A long black scarf accentuated her gaudy attire. “Senor—Gene!” she exclaimed; and breathless glad recognition made a sudden break in her terror. “Bonita!” The cowboy leaped to her. “Girl! Are you hurt?” “No, Senor.” He took hold of her. “I heard—somebody got shot. Was it Danny?” “No, Senor.” “Did Danny do the shooting? Tell me, girl.” “No, Senor.” “I’m sure glad. I thought Danny was mixed up in that. He had Stillwell’s money for the boys—I was afraid.... Say, Bonita, but you’ll get in trouble. Who was with you? What did you do?” “Senor Gene—they Don Carlos vaqueros—they quarrel over me. I only dance a leetle, smile a leetle, and they quarrel. I beg they be good—watch out for Sheriff Hawe... and now Sheriff Hawe put me in jail. I so frighten; he try make leetle love to Bonita once, and now he hate me like he hate Senor Gene.” “Pat Hawe won’t put you in jail. Take my horse and hit the Peloncillo trail. Bonita, promise to stay away from El Cajon.” “Si, Senor.” He led her outside. Madeline heard the horse snort and champ his bit. The cowboy spoke low; only a few words were intelligible—“stirrups... wait... out of town... mountain... trail ... now ride!” A moment’s silence ensued, and was broken by a pounding of hoofs, a pattering of gravel. Then Madeline saw a big, dark horse run into the wide space. She caught a glimpse of wind-swept scarf and hair, a little form low down in the saddle. The horse was outlined in black against the line of dim lights. There was something wild and splendid in his flight. Directly the cowboy appeared again in the doorway. “Miss Hammond, I reckon we want to rustle out of here. Been bad goings-on. And there’s a train due.” She hurried into the open air, not daring to look back or to either side. Her guide strode swiftly. She had almost to run to keep up with him. Many conflicting emotions confused her. She had a strange sense of this stalking giant beside her, silent except for his jangling spurs. She had a strange feeling of the cool, sweet wind and the white stars. Was it only her disordered fancy, or did these wonderful stars open and shut? She had a queer, disembodied thought that somewhere in ages back, in another life, she had seen these stars. The night seemed dark, yet there was a pale, luminous light—a light from the stars—and she fancied it would always haunt her. Suddenly aware that she had been led beyond the line of houses, she spoke: “Where are you taking me?” “To Florence Kingsley,” he replied. “Who is she?”