Intent on the trail, Lucy failed to note time or distance till the looming and frowning monuments stood aloft before her. What weird effect they had! Each might have been a colossal statue left there to mark the work of the ages. Lucy realized that the whole vast valley had once been solid rock, just like the monuments, and through the millions of years the softer parts had eroded and weathered and blown away--gone with the great sea that had once been there. But the beauty, the solemnity, the majesty of these monuments fascinated her most. She passed the first one, a huge square butte, and then the second, a ragged, thin, double shaft, and then went between two much alike, reaching skyward in the shape of monstrous mittens. She watched and watched them, sparing a moment now and then to attend to the trail. She noticed that she was coming into a region of grass, and faint signs of water in the draws. She was getting high again, not many miles now from the wall of rock. All at once Sage King shied, and Lucy looked down to see a man lying on the ground. He lay inert. But his eyes were open--dark, staring eyes. They moved. And he called. But Lucy could not understand him. In a flash she leaped off the King. She ran to the prostrate man--dropped to her knees. "Oh!" she cried. His face was ghastly. "Oh! are you--you badly hurt?" "Lift me--my head," he said, faintly. She raised his head. What a strained, passionate, terrible gaze he bent upon the horses. "Boy, they're mine--the black an' the red!" he cried. "They surely must be," replied Lucy. "Oh! tell me. Are you hurt?" "Boy! did you catch them--fetch them back--lookin' for me?" "I sure did." "You caught-that red devil--an' fetched him--back to me?" went on the wondering, faint voice. "Boy--oh--boy!" He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down. The action amazed her equally as his passion of gratitude. He might have been injured, but he had an arm of iron. Lucy was powerless. She felt her face against his--and her breast against his. The pounding of his heart was like blows. The first instant she wanted to laugh, despite her pity. Then the powerful arm--the contact affected her as nothing ever before. Suppose this crippled rider had taken her for a boy--She was not a boy! She could not help being herself. And no man had ever put a hand on her. Consciousness of this brought shame and anger. She struggled so violently that she freed herself. And he lay back. "See here--that's no way to act--to hug--a person," she cried, with flaming cheeks. "Boy, I--" "I'm NOT a boy. I'm a girl." "What!" Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far forward, and this revealed her face fully, and her hair came tumbling down. The rider gazed, stupefied. Then a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks. "A girl! ... Why--why 'scuse me, miss. I--I took you--for a boy."