A year of wild life had sharpened the caution of Arizona.  That neglect of his fire was by no means in keeping with the usual methods of Sinclair.  Before he came to the last spur of the hill, Arizona dismounted and stole up on foot.  He listened intently.  There was not a sound of anyone moving about.  There was only an occasional crackle of the dying fire.  When he came to the edge of the shoulder, Arizona raised his head cautiously to peer over.

He saw a faintly illumined picture of Riley Sinclair, sitting with his hat off, his face raised, and such a light in his face that there needed no play of the fire to tell its meaning.  Beside him sat a girl, more distinct, for she was dressed in white, and the fire gleamed and curled and modeled her hair and cast a highlight on her chin, her throat, and her hand in the brown hand of Sinclair.

Arizona winced down out of sight and stole back under the trees.

“Doggone me,” he said to his horse, “they both remembered the day.”