“Mornin’, Mister Detective!” she caroled. “Are you talkin’ into your sleep, or did you find a drink somewheres? You’re foolish, sounds like.”

Somewhat sheepish, he stood a moment without reply. His eyes dwelt on the wealth of tumbled hair, now glowing like forest-fire in the clean light of the new day: no pale sandy tresses, but rich, vivid, Titian red. Nowhere in it showed dark streak or telltale kink.

“Listen,” he countered. “Did you ever hear of a crowd of men—white and red and black—who went out through the Gap over yonder and brought in women and made slaves of them?”

At once her friendly face turned cold.

“You’re huntin’ into the wrong place,” she told him, lifting her chin. “Our fellers don’t do that. You better look somewheres else.”

“Oh, shucks! Can’t you get rid of that idea that I’m hunting somebody? These desperadoes were all dead long before we were born. But haven’t you heard some such story from the old folks?”

After watching his frank face a moment she shook her head.

“No, never heard tell of such a thing. If they’re all dead, what’s the good of worryin’ about ’em anyway?”

He shrugged and moved on toward the charred[43] sticks, meanwhile turning the conversation into another channel.

[43]

“How’s the ankle?”

She probed under the blanket, threw the covering aside, pushed herself up, and took a tentative step.

“Why, by mighty, mister! You’re a reg’lar doctor! It’s sore, but it ain’t half as bad as ’twas. It hurt terrible last night when I——”

She stopped abruptly, but her eyes went to the entrance.

“When you came and covered me up? Serves you right. That was the most foolish thing—but I thank you, just the same.”

Her lips opened, but for a moment no word came. Her eyes still were fixed on the narrow slit, and a little frown of concentration furrowed her brow. He pivoted and squinted against the glare of the rising sun now darting in at that crack. Then she 

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