girls were in the dining car.

Betsy beamed on her companions. The early morning sun falling on her red-brown hair made it shine like burnished gold.

“Even your freckles look gilded this morning,” Barbara teased.

The pug nose of the youngest wrinkled at her tormentor, then with an excited little squeal she exclaimed, “Oh, isn’t the desert just gloriously lonesome looking? Those mountains over there are so bleak and gray and the canons so dark! I can’t see a living thing anywhere, can you?”

Margaret, being questioned, peered out at the wide sandy waste of desert stretching to the distant mountains that rose grim, gray and forbidding. Here and there a clump of greasewood or of mesquite was half buried in mounds of sand that the frequent whirlwinds had left.

Betsy shivered. “Girls,” she said solemnly, “the very scene teems with mystery. I just feel sure that an exciting adventure is about to begin at most any moment. The setting is perfect for one. I’m going to watch that sandhill over there as long as it’s in sight. I expect to see a Mexican bandit peer around it and utter a shrill cry which will mean—”

“Do the young ladies wish oatmeal this morning?” It was the suave waiter who had interrupted, and although the girls gave their orders with solemn faces, they laughed merrily when they were again alone.

“It’s too bad to disappoint you, Betsy, but that’s about the way all of your hoped-for adventures will end,” Virginia told her friend.

The four girls, Virginia Davis, the seventeen-year-old mistress of V. M. Ranch and her adopted sister, Margaret Selover, who was sixteen, their neighbor, Barbara Blair Wente, also sixteen, and Virginia’s guest, Betsy Clossen, who as yet was but fifteen, had traveled from Vine Haven, where they had been attending boarding school for the past year.

Although the other three girls were well acquainted with the Arizona desert, Betsy Clossen had never been west of Chicago. However, she had often frequented that big city, as she had many others in the east, for her father was a famous detective who was often following clues that led him from Chicago to New York, and, at first, not wanting to be parted from his motherless little girl, he had taken her with him, but at last, believing that he was doing the child an injustice, he had placed her in the Vine Haven boarding school, where she had since remained, making 

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