This impression came to him simultaneously with her cry--shrill with relief and joy: "Oh, it's Patches! It's Randerson!" And then she suddenly stiffened and stretched out flat on the top of the rock. He lifted her down and carried her, marveling at her lightness, to a clump of bunch-grass near by, and worked, trying to revive her, until she struggled and sat up. She looked once at him, her eyes wide, her gaze intent, as though she wanted to be sure that it was really he, and then she drew a long, quavering breath and covered her face with her hands. "Oh," she said; "it was horrible!" She uncovered her face and looked up at him. "Why," she added, "I have been here since before dark! And it must be after midnight, now!" "It's about nine. Where's your horse?" "Gone," she said dolorously. "He fell--over there--and threw me. I saw Chavis--and Kester--over on the mesa. I thought they would come after me, and I hurried. Then my pony fell. I've hurt my ankle--and I couldn't catch him--my pony, I mean; he was too obstinate--I could have killed him! I couldn't walk, you know--my ankle, and the snakes--and the awful darkness, and--Oh, Randerson," she ended, with a gulp of gratitude, "I never was so glad to see you--anybody--in my life!" "I reckon it _was_ kind of lonesome for you out here alone with the snakes, an' the dark, an' things." She was over her scare now, he knew--as he was over his fears for her, and he grinned with a humor brought on by a revulsion of feeling. "I reckon mebbe the snakes would have bothered you some," he added, "for they're natural mean. But I reckon the moon made such an awful darkness on purpose to scare you." "How can you joke about it?" she demanded resentfully. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said with quick contrition. "You see, I was glad to find you. An' you're all right now, you know." "Yes, yes," she said, quickly forgiving. "I suppose I _am_ a coward." "Why, no, ma'am, I reckon you ain't. Anybody sittin' here alone, a woman, especial, would likely think a lot of curious thoughts. They'd seem real. I reckon it was your ankle, that kept you from walkin'." "It hurts terribly," she whispered, and she felt of it, looking at him plaintively. "It is so swollen I can't get my boot off. And the leather seems like an iron band around it." She looked pleadingly at him. "Won't you please take it off?" His embarrassment was genuine and deep. "Why, I reckon I can, ma'am," he told her. "But I ain't never had a heap of experience--" His pause was eloquent, and he finished lamely "with boots--boots, that is, that was on swelled ankles." "Is it necessary to have experience?" she returned impatiently. "Why, I reckon not, ma'am." He knelt beside her and grasped the boot, giving it a gentle tug. She cried out with pain and he dropped the boot and made a grimace of sympathy. "I didn't mean to hurt you, ma'am."