To this Kauffman added his plea. "Yes, yes, let us go," he said, bitterly. "I am tired of these lawless savages. We came here, thinking it was like Switzerland, a land inhabited by brave and gentle people, lovers of the mountains. We find it a den of assassins. If you can help us to the railway, dear friend, we will ask no more of you and we will bless you always." The ranger could not blame them for the panic into which they had fallen, and frankly acknowledged that it was possible for Kitsong to make them a great deal of trouble. Reluctantly he consented. "I am sorry to have you go, but I reckon you're justified. There is a way to board the northbound train without going to town, and if nothing else happens we'll make the eastbound express. That will take you out of the state with only one stop." Conditions were not favorable for any further expression of the deep regret he felt, for the road was rough, and with only one seat in the wagon he was forced to perch himself on his up-ended saddle, and so, urging the team to its best, he spoke only to outline his plan. "I'll drive you to the Clear Creek siding," he explained. "All trains stop there to take on water, and No. 3 is due round about one. We can make it easily if nothing happens, and unless the Kitsong gang get word from some of these ranches we pass, you will be safely out of the country before they know you've gone." They rode in silence for some time, but as they were dropping down into the hot, dry, treeless foot-hills the ranger turned to explain: "I'm going to leave the main road and whip out over the mesa just above the Blackbird Ranch, so don't be surprised by my change of plan. They are a dubious lot down there at the Blackbird, and have a telephone, so I'd just as soon they wouldn't see us at all. They might send word to Abe. It'll take a little longer, and the road is rougher, but our chances for getting safely away are much better." "We are entirely in your hands," she answered, with quiet confidence. Her accent, her manner, were as new to him as her dress. She no longer seemed a young girl masquerading, but a woman--one to whom life was offering such stern drama that all her former troubles seemed suddenly faint and far away. Kauffman was still suffering from his fall, and it became necessary for Helen to steady, him in his seat. Her muscles ached with the strain, but she made no complaint, for she feared the ranger might lessen the speed of their flight. Upon turning into the rough road which climbed the mesa, the horses fell into a walk, and the ranger, leaping from the wagon, strode alongside, close to the seat on which the girl sat. "All this is not precisely in the Service Book," he remarked, with a touch of returning humor, "but I reckon it will be accounted 'giving aid and succor to settlers in time of need.'"