“My motor ran out of gasolene this afternoon. I’ve been”—there was a catch in her voice—“wandering ever since.” “You’re played out, of course, and y’u’ve had no supper,” he said, his quiet close gaze on her. “Yes, I’m played out and my nerve’s gone.” She laughed a little hysterically. “I expect I’m hungry and thirsty, too, though I hadn’t noticed it before.” He whirled to his saddle, and had the canteen thongs unloosed in a moment. While she drank he rummaged from his saddle-bags some sandwiches of jerky and a flask of whiskey. She ate the sandwiches, he the while watching her with amused sympathy in his swarthy countenance. “You ain’t half-bad at the chuck-wagon, Miss Messiter,” he told her. She stopped, the sandwich part way to her mouth. “I don’t remember your face. I’ve met so many people since I came to the Lazy D. Still, I think I should remember you.” He immediately relieved of duty her quasi apology. “You haven’t seen _my face_ before,” he laughed, and, though she puzzled over the double meaning that seemed to lurk behind his words and amuse him, she could not find the key to it. It was too dark to make out his features at all clearly, but she was sure she had seen him before or somebody that looked very much like him. “Life on the range ain’t just what y’u can call exciting,” he continued, “and when a young lady fresh from back East drops among us while sixguns are popping, breaks up a likely feud and mends right neatly all the ventilated feudists it’s a corollary to her fun that’s she is going to become famous.” What he said was true enough. The unsolicited notoriety her exploit had brought upon her had been its chief penalty. Garbled versions of it had appeared with fake pictures in New York and Chicago Sunday supplements, and all Cattleland had heard and discussed it. No matter into what unfrequented cañon she rode, some silent cowpuncher would look at her as they met with admiring eyes behind which she read a knowledge of the story. It was a lonely desolate country, full of the wide deep silences of utter emptiness, yet there could be no footfall but the whisper of it was bruited on the wings of the wind. “Do you know where the Lazy D ranch is from here?” she asked. He nodded. “Can you take me home?” “I surely can. But not to-night. You’re more tired than y’u know. We’ll camp here, and in the mo’ning we’ll hit the trail bright and early.” This did not suit her at all. “Is it far to the Lazy D?” she inquired anxiously. “Every inch of forty miles. There’s a creek not more than two hundred yards from here. We’ll stay there till morning,” he made answer in a matter of course voice, leading the way to the place he had mentioned. She followed, protesting. Yet though it was not in accord with her civilized sense of fitness, she knew that what he proposed was the common sense solution. She was tired and worn out, and she could see that his broncho had traveled far.