And without realizing it, Lorry grew to love the sprightly, slender Dorothy with a wholesome, boyish affection.  When she was well, he was happy.  When she became over-tired, and was obliged to stay in her room, he was miserable, blaming himself for suggesting some expedition that had been too much for her strength, so often buoyed above its natural level by enthusiasm.  At such times he would blame himself roundly.  And if there seemed no cause for her depression, he warred silently with the power that stooped to harm so frail a creature.  His own physical freedom knew no such check.  He could not quite understand sickness, save when it came through some obvious physical injury.

Bronson was glad that there was a Lorry; both as a companion to himself and as a tower of strength to Dorothy.  Her depression vanished in the young ranger’s presence.  It was a case of the thoroughbred endeavoring to live up to the thoroughbred standard.  And Bronson considered anything thoroughbred that was true to type.  Yet the writer had known men physically inconsequent who possessed a fine strain of courage, loyalty, honor.  The shell might be misshapen, malformed, and yet the spirit burn high and clear.  And Bronson reasoned that there was a divinity of blood, despite the patents of democracy.

Bronson found that he had to go to Jason for supplies.  Dorothy asked to go with him.  Bronson hesitated.  It was a long ride, although Dorothy had made it upon occasion.  She teased prettily.  Lorry was away.  She wasn’t afraid to stay alone, but she would be lonesome.  If she kissed him three times, one right on top of the other, would he let her come?  Bronson gave in to this argument.  They would ride slowly, and stay a day longer in Jason to rest.

When they arrived at Jason, Dorothy immediately went to bed.  She wanted to be at her best on the following day.  She was going to talk with Mr. Shoop.  It was a very serious matter.

And next morning she excused herself while her father bought supplies.  She called at the supervisor’s office.  Bud Shoop beamed.  She was so alert, so vivacious, and so charming in her quick slenderness.  The genial Bud placed a chair for her with grandiloquent courtesy.

“I’m going to ask a terrible favor,” she began, crossing her legs and clasping her knee.

“I’m pow’ful scared,” said Bud.

“I don’t want favors that way.  I want you to like me, and then I will tell you.”

“My goodness, missy!  Like you!  Who said I didn’t?”

“No one.  But you have ordered Lorry Adams to close up his camp and go over to work right near the Apache Reservation.”

“I sure did.”

“Well, Mr. Shoop, I don’t like Apaches.”

“You got comp’ny, missy.  But what’s that got to do with Lorry?”

“Oh, I suppose he doesn’t care.  But what do you think his mother would say to you if he—­well, if he got scalped?”