“I done remembered you, ‘Lindy, like I promised.  I’m a-followin’ them scalawags yet,” he murmured.

“His sister’s name was Melindy,” explained Prince.

The girl nodded.  She was rubbing gently the boy’s wrist with her wet handkerchief.

“It’s getting dark,” she told Billie in her sharp, decisive way.  “Get your fire lit—­a big one.  I’ve got some cooking to do.”

Further orders were waiting for him as soon as he had the camp-fire going.  “You’ll find my horse tied to a live-oak down the river a bit.  Bring it up.”

Billie smiled as he moved away into the darkness.  This imperious girl belonged, of course, in the camp of the enemy.  She had held him up with the intention of driving them back to town before her in triumph.  But she was, after all, a very tender-hearted foe to a man stricken with sickness.  It occurred to the Texan that through her might lie a way of salvation for them both.

Until he saw the turkey the cowpuncher wondered what cooking she could have in mind, but while he cantered back through the sand he guessed what she meant to do.

“Draw the turkey.  Don’t pick it,” she gave instructions.  Her own hands were busy trying to make her patient comfortable.

After he had drawn the bird, which was a young, plump one, he made under direction of the young woman a cement of mud.  This he daubed in a three-inch coating over the turkey, then prepared the fire to make of it an oven.  He covered the bird with ashes, raked live coals over these, and piled upon the red-hot coals pinon knots and juniper boughs.

“Keep your fire going till about two or three o’clock, then let it die out.  In the morning the turkey will be baked,” the young Diana gave assurance.

The cowpuncher omitted to tell her that he had baked a dozen more or less and knew all about it.

She rose and drew on her gauntlets in a business-like manner.

“I’m going home now.  After the fever passes keep him warm and let him sleep if he will.”

“Yes, ma’am,” promised Billie with suspicious meekness.

The girl looked at him sharply, as if she distrusted his humility.  Was he laughing at her?  Did he dare to find amusement in her?

“I haven’t changed my mind about you.  Folks that come to town and start killing deserve all they get.  But I’d look after a yellow dog if it was sick,” she said contemptuously, little devils of defiance in her eyes.

“I’m not questionin’ your motives, ma’am, so long as your actions are friendly,”

“I haven’t any use for any of Homer Webb’s outfit.  He’s got no business here.  If he runs into trouble he has only himself to blame.”

“I’ll mention to him that you said so.”

Picking up the rifle, she turned and walked to the horse.  There was a little devil-may-care touch to her walk, just as in her manner, that suggested a girl spoiled by over-much indulgence.  She was imperious, high-spirited, full of courage and insolence, because her environment had moulded her to independence.  It was impossible for the young cow puncher to help admiring the girl.