All at once a slim, rough little hand slipped into his. Instinctively Adam closed his own great hand over it. That touch gave him such a thrill as he had never before felt in all his life. It seemed to link his strength and this child’s trust. The rough little fingers and calloused little palm might have belonged to a hard-laboring boy, but the touch was feminine. Adam, desert trained by years that had dominated even the habits ingrained in his youth, and answering mostly to instinct, received here an unintelligible shock that stirred to the touch of a trusting hand, but was nothing physical. His body, his mind, his soul seemed but an exhaustive instrument of creation over which the desert played masterfully. “It was lucky you happened along,” said the girl. “Yes,” replied Adam, as if startled. “They were bad men. And, oh, I was so glad to see them--at first. It’s so lonely. No one ever comes except the Indians--and they come to _beg_ things to eat--never to _give_. I thought those white men were prospectors and would give me a little flour or coffee--or something mother would like. We’ve had so little to eat.” “That so? Well, I have a full pack,” replied Adam. “Plenty of flour, coffee, sugar, bacon, canned milk, dried fruit.” “And you’ll give us some?” she asked, eagerly, in a whisper. “All you need.” “Oh, you’re good--good as those men were bad!” she exclaimed, with a throb of joy. “Mother has just starved herself for me. You see, the Indian who packed supplies to us hasn’t come for long. Nobody has come--except those bad men. And our food gave out little by little. Mother starved herself for me.... Oh, I couldn’t make her eat. She’d say she didn’t want what I’d cook. Then I’d have to eat it.” “Isn’t your mother able to get about?” asked Adam, turning to peer down into the dark little face. “Oh no! She’s dying of consumption,” was the low, sad reply. “And your father?” asked Adam, a little huskily. “He died two years ago. I guess it’s two, for the peak has been white twice.” “Died?--here in the desert?” “Yes. We buried him by the running water where he loved to sit.” “Tell me--how did your parents and you come to be here.” “They both had consumption long before I was born,” replied the girl. “Father had it--but mother didn’t--when they were married. That was back in Iowa. Mother caught it from him. And they both were going to die. They had tried every way to get well, but the doctors said they couldn’t.... So father and mother started West in a prairie schooner. I was born in it, somewhere in Kansas. They tried place after place, trying to find a climate that would cure them. I remember as far back as Arizona. But father never improved till we got to this valley. Here he was getting strong again. Then my uncle came and he found gold over in the mountains. That made father mad to get rich--to have gold for me. He worked too hard--and then he died. Mother has been slowly failing ever since.”