It did not seem right to leave him thus. The man was deranged and unfit to be at large. But when I proposed that he accompany us to The Tanks, our acquaintance returned a vehement refusal. We could not fool him, he said. The last man who gave him a ride had tried to put him on board a train, and he had been compelled to knock the fellow on the head with a stick of wood. So we left him sitting on the skull, counting the tops of the hills. He mentioned carelessly that he would probably see us again. There was no mistaking the lady we had come to escort. "There she is. Wouldn't she knock you cold?" Lafe whispered. Her hair was yellow, and she gave the impression of having been melted and poured into her pink muslin. Assuredly she was not of our world, and most certainly her clothes fitted. The conductor, a large individual of red hair and an aloof expression, closed his left eye slowly at Lafe and stepped aboard. The Burro express crawled away up the valley and we set out for the ranch, Johnson riding close to the buckboard, the better to converse with Mrs. Vining. She began to question about the country and cow work. Everything was "astonishing" or "delightful, really," of course; and no matter what she said, there was injected into her speech an indefinable note that seemed to place the listener on a confidential footing, to the exclusion of all others. Some women have this faculty. The two ignored me utterly. I coughed once or twice as a faint reminder to Lafe that he was a newly married man and that I was prepared to do the civil thing myself, but he took no notice. We had forgotten all about our friend of the mathematical propensities, when he appeared suddenly beside the trail. "Hello," he cried, "back already?" Mrs. Vining regarded the unkempt figure with composure. "Why don't we drive on?" she said. "Drive on, please." "Who's that? Who's that, I say?" The prospector advanced on the buckboard at a shambling trot. "Please, please drive on," Mrs. Vining entreated faintly. Instead of obeying, the Mexican waited. The prospector came to the wheel of the buckboard and peered hard at Mrs. Vining. She met his gaze in a sort of horrified fascination for a moment and then turned completely about in her seat, so that her shoulders were to him. Before we could intervene, he seized her by the arm and commenced to drag her out. He was mumbling as he did so. "No, I won't go," she screamed. "It wasn't my fault. I won't go. Help! Help me!" Lafe spurred almost on top of the fellow and cut at him with a quirt. He released his hold and dodged, and Mrs. Vining sank back into the buckboard. "Hi, you--drive on," Johnson commanded.