"That's the queer part of it"--he laughed without mirth--"I can't rightly explain that myself. Mary Lou--no, I'd have come back anyhow. I was going dippy down there among the yellow-bellies. And Mary Lou, she--" He told Lafe that he had wandered four times to the line, merely to get a glimpse of the country. The air this side of the border fence was different to the other; he was positive of that, although the boundary consisted of some strands of barbed wire. Once a corporal, returning from Naco to the post, had come upon him a mile within American territory. What was he doing there? Oh, just looking round. He had taken back with him a prickly-pear plant. The corporal had almost caught Wilkins that time, but he managed to put the fence between them. On the other side he could twiddle his fingers at the corporal, who dared not pursue. Johnson was puzzled and said so. "What were you hanging round here for? With a good job at the mines, you had a chance to start all over again." "That's what I'm a-telling you, consarn it. With the whole wide world to wander in, I kept sneaking back to this fence like a sick pup. Ain't it hell?" The aching sadness of a very homesick man had him fast. He stared up the San Pedro valley and drew in a slow, deep breath. His voice was unsteady when he tried to resume. "And Mary Lou--I sent her messages, and she kept saying--" "Oh, well," said Lafe, "if you're going to cry over it, I'm off. Adios." "Don't be a bloody fool. Hey, wait a minute, Johnson." The escort could not be kept waiting all night, the sergeant shouted. "Keep your shirt on, Osborne. I'll have to be quiet long enough from to-day." "About three years, I'm thinking," the sergeant said gloatingly. Wilkins let the remark pass. He was gazing at two riders who were advancing down the lane towards the corrals. "Why--no, it can't be. Yes, it is. It's Mary Lou." It was, indeed, Mary Lou; and Lafe's wife was with her. Johnson was not especially pleased to see her there, but he wisely refrained from comment. The two women approached the group. Mary Lou shook hands gravely with Wilkins and Lafe was glad that he did not try to kiss her, or betray any sentimental weakness. The pair accepted the situation soberly and Mary Lou called to her friend to come forward. "This," she said shyly, "is Bill. Shake hands with Mrs. Johnson, Bill." "How do you--Bob, Bob! It's you," Hetty squealed. The manner of Mrs. Johnson's introduction was this--she jumped her horse close to the deserter and clasped him in her arms. He was equally fervent on his part. He held her tight and cried: "Hetty! Little Hetty." Lafe experienced a not unnatural curiosity. He thrust between them and wanted to know who the gentleman might be who seemed so fond of his wife, and, glaring at that unabashed young woman, inquired what she meant by it. The troopers were grinning. The sergeant looked annoyed. "Why, Lafe dear, this is Bob."