“Wal, it’s all amazin’ strange. It beats me. I wish the boys would ease up on drinkin’. I was pretty fond of Danny an’ Gene. I’m afraid Gene’s done fer, sure. If he crosses the border where he can fight it won’t take long fer him to get plugged. I guess I’m gettin’ old. I don’t stand things like I used to.” “Bill, I reckon I’d better hit the Peloncillo trail. Mebbe I can find Danny.” “I reckon you had, Nels,” replied Stillwell. “But don’t take more ’n a couple of days. We can’t do much on the round-up without you. I’m short of boys.” That ended the conversation. Stillwell immediately began to hitch up his team, and the cowboys went out to fetch their strayed horses. Madeline had been curiously interested, and she saw that Florence knew it. “Things happen, Miss Hammond,” she said, soberly, almost sadly. Madeline thought. And then straightway Florence began brightly to hum a tune and to busy herself repacking what was left of the lunch. Madeline conceived a strong liking and respect for this Western girl. She admired the consideration or delicacy or wisdom—what-ever it was—which kept Florence from asking her what she knew or thought or felt about the events that had taken place. Soon they were once more bowling along the road down a gradual incline, and then they began to climb a long ridge that had for hours hidden what lay beyond. That climb was rather tiresome, owing to the sun and the dust and the restricted view. When they reached the summit Madeline gave a little gasp of pleasure. A deep, gray, smooth valley opened below and sloped up on the other side in little ridges like waves, and these led to the foothills, dotted with clumps of brush or trees, and beyond rose dark mountains, pine-fringed and crag-spired. “Wal, Miss Majesty, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” said Stillwell, cracking his whip. “Ten miles across this valley an’ we’ll be in the foothills where the Apaches used to run.” “Ten miles!” exclaimed Madeline. “It looks no more than half a mile to me.” “Wal, young woman, before you go to ridin’ off alone you want to get your eyes corrected to Western distance. Now, what’d you call them black things off there on the slope?” “Horsemen. No, cattle,” replied Madeline, doubtfully. “Nope. Jest plain, every-day cactus. An’ over hyar—look down the valley. Somethin’ of a pretty forest, ain’t thet?” he asked, pointing. Madeline saw a beautiful forest in the center of the valley toward the south. “Wal, Miss Majesty, thet’s jest this deceivin’ air. There’s no forest. It’s a mirage.” “Indeed! How beautiful it is!” Madeline strained her gaze on the dark blot, and it seemed to float in the atmosphere, to have no clearly defined margins, to waver and shimmer, and then it faded and vanished.