They walked on for some moments in silence. The ascent was comparatively easy but devious, and Boyle could see that this new detour would take them still some time to reach the summit. Miss Cantire at last voiced the thought in his own mind. “I wonder what induced them to turn off here? and if you hadn't been so clever as to discover their tracks, how could we have found them? But,” she added, with feminine logic, “that, of course, is why they fired those shots.” Boyle remembered, however, that the shots came from another direction, but did not correct her conclusion. Nevertheless he said lightly: “Perhaps even Foster might have had an Indian scare.” “He ought to know 'friendlies' or 'government reservation men' better by this time,” said Miss Cantire; “however, there is something in that. Do you know,” she added with a laugh, “though I haven't your keen eyes I'm gifted with a keen scent, and once or twice I've thought I SMELT Indians--that peculiar odor of their camps, which is unlike anything else, and which one detects even in their ponies. I used to notice it when I rode one; no amount of grooming could take it away.” “I don't suppose that the intensity or degree of this odor would give you any idea of the hostile or friendly feelings of the Indians towards you?” asked Boyle grimly. Although the remark was consistent with Boyle's objectionable reputation as a humorist, Miss Cantire deigned to receive it with a smile, at which Boyle, who was a little relieved by their security so far, and their nearness to their journey's end, developed further ingenious trifling until, at the end of an hour, they stood upon the plain again. There was no sign of the coach, but its fresh track was visible leading along the bank of the ravine towards the intersection of the road they should have come by, and to which the coach had indubitably returned. Mr. Boyle drew a long breath. They were comparatively safe from any invisible attack now. At the end of ten minutes Miss Cantire, from her superior height, detected the top of the missing vehicle appearing above the stunted bushes at the junction of the highway. “Would you mind throwing those old flowers away now?” she said, glancing at the spoils which Boyle still carried. “Why?” he asked. “Oh, they're too ridiculous. Please do.” “May I keep one?” he asked, with the first intonation of masculine weakness in his voice. “If you like,” she said, a little coldly. Boyle selected a small spray of myrtle and cast the other flowers obediently aside. “Dear me, how ridiculous!” she said. “What is ridiculous?” he asked, lifting his eyes to hers with a slight color. But he saw that she was straining her eyes in the distance. “Why, there don't seem to be any horses to the coach!”