The boy, Joe, helped Monty afterward with the dishes, Patricia having been commanded to rest; a command impossible for her to obey, though she sat quiet with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Too tightly, Monty thought, whenever he looked her way. Monty was a painstaking young man, and he had learned from long experience in the wilderness to provide for possible emergencies as well as present needs. He wiped out the dishpan, hung it on its nail and spread the dishcloth over it, and then took a small, round box from his pocket. He opened it and took out a tablet with his thumb and finger. He dropped the tablet into a jelly glass--the same which Gary had used to hold his gold dust--and added a little water. He stood watching it, shaking it gently until the tablet was dissolved. “We-all are going to spread our bed out in the grove, Miss Connolly,” he drawled easily, approaching Patricia with the glass. “I reckoned likely yuh-all would be mighty tired to-night, and maybe kinda nervous and upset. So I asked the doctor what I could bring along that would give yuh-all a night’s rest without doin’ any harm. He sent this out and said it would quiet your nerves so yuh-all could sleep. Don’t be afraid of it--I made sure it wasn’t anything harmful.” Patricia looked at him for a minute, then put out her hand for the glass and drank the contents to the last dregs. “Thank you very much, Mr. Girard,” she said simply. “I was wondering how I’d get through this night.” CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE “GOD WOULDN’T LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO GARY!” Having slept well during the night--thanks to Monty’s forethought in bringing a sedative--Patricia woke while the sun was just gilding the top of the butte. The cañon and the grove were still in shadow, and a mocking bird was singing in the top of the piñon beside the cabin. Patricia dressed hurriedly, and tidied the blankets in the bunk. She pulled open the door, gazing upon her possessions with none of that pleasurable thrill she had always pictured as accompanying her first fair sight of Johnnywater. She did not believe that harm had befallen Gary. Things _couldn’t_ happen to Gary Marshall. Not for one moment, she told herself resolutely, had she believed it. Yet the mystery of his absence nagged at her like a gadfly. Fifty feet or so away, partially hidden by a young juniper, Patricia could discern the white tarp that covered the bed where Monty Girard and Joe were still asleep. She stepped down off the doorsill and made her way quietly to the creek, and knelt on a stone and laved her face and hands in the cool water.