As her horse drank, a strange thing happened.  At a point directly opposite her a bunch of tumble weeds had gathered against the bank of the shrunken stream.  Something agitated them, and from among the brush the head and shoulders of a man projected.

Without an instant of delay the girl slipped from the pony and led it behind a clump of mesquite.  Through this she peered intently, watching every move of the man, who had by this time come out into the open.  He went down to the river, filled his hat with water, and disappeared among the tumble weeds, gathering them closely to conceal the entrance of his cave.

The young woman remounted, rode downstream an eighth of a mile, splashed through to the other side, and tied her pony to a stunted live-oak.  Rifle in hand she crept cautiously along the bank and came to a halt behind a cottonwood thirty yards from the cave.  Here she waited, patiently, silently, as many a time she had done while stalking the game she was used to hunting.

The minutes passed, ran into an hour.  The westering sun slid down close to the horizon’s edge.  Still the girl held her vigil.  At last the brush moved once more and the man reappeared.  His glance swept the landscape, the river-bank, the opposite shore.  Apparently satisfied, he came out from his hiding-place, and began to gather brush for a fire.

He was stooped, his back toward her, when the voice of the girl startled him to rigidity.

“Hands in the air!”

He did not at once obey.  His head turned to see who this Amazon might be.

“Can’t you hear?  Reach for the sky!” she ordered sharply.

She had risen and stepped from behind the tree.  He could see that she was dark, of a full, fine figure, and that her steady black eyes watched him without the least fear.  The rifle in her hands covered him very steadily.

His hands went up, but he could not keep a little, sardonic smile from his face.  The young woman lowered the rifle from her shoulder and moved warily forward.

“Lie down on the sand, face to the ground, hands outstretched!” came her next command.

Billie did as he was told.  A little tug at his side gave notice to him that she had deftly removed his revolver.

“Sit up!”

The cowpuncher sat up and took notice.  Stars of excitement snapped in the eyes of this very competent young woman.  The color beat warmly through her dark skin.  She was very well worth looking at.

“What’s your name?” she demanded.

“My road brand is Billie Prince,” he answered.

“Thought so.  Where’s the other man?”

He nodded toward the cave.

“Call him out,” she said curtly.

“I hate to wake him.  He’s been wounded.  All day he’s been in a high fever and he’s asleep at last.”

For the first time her confidence seemed a little shaken.  She hesitated.  “Is he badly hurt?”