Step by step the girl detailed what had happened while the Texan listened in silence.  “And now,” she concluded, “he’s gone.  Just when—­” her voice broke and once more she buried her face in her arms.  Tex saw that she was sobbing silently.  He felt for his “makings” and drew from his pocket a little sack of soggy tobacco and some wet papers.  He returned them to his pocket and rose to his feet.

“You’re cold,” he said softly.  “There’s dry matches in the pack.  I’ll make a fire an’ get those wet saddles off the horses.”

Alice did not look up and the man busied himself with the pack.  A few minutes later she felt his fingers upon her shoulder.  He pointed toward a fire that crackled cheerfully from the depths of a bull pine thicket.  “I fixed you up a shelter tent and spread your blankets.  The tarp kep’ ’em tolerable dry.  Go over there an’ get off those clothes.  You must be wet through—­nothin’ short of a divin’ suit would have kep’ that rain out!”

“But——­”

He forestalled the objection.  “There won’t be any one to bother you.  I’m goin’ down the creek.”

The girl noticed that his horse, saddled with Endicott’s saddle stood close behind her.

“I didn’t mean that!” she exclaimed.  “But you are cold—­chilled to the bone.  You need the fire more than I do.”

The man shook his head:  “I’ll be goin’ now,” he said.  “You’d better make you some coffee.”

“You’re going to—­to——­”

Tex nodded:  “Yes.  To find the pilgrim.  If he’s alive I’ll find him.  An’ if he ain’t I’ll find him.  An’ when I do, I’ll bring him back to you.”  He turned abruptly, swung onto his horse, and Alice watched him as he disappeared down the valley, keeping to the higher ground.  Not until she was alone did the girl realize how miserably cold and uncomfortable she was.  She rose stiffly, and walking slowly to the edge of the bank, looked out over the little valley.  The great reservoir had run out in that first wild rush of water and now the last rays of moonlight showed only wide, glistening pools, and the creek subsided to nearly its normal proportions.  With a shudder she turned toward the fire.  Its warmth felt grateful.  She removed the slicker and riding costume and, wrapping herself, squaw-like, in a blanket, sat down in the little shelter tent.  She found that the Texan had filled the coffee pot and, throwing in some coffee, she set it to boil.

“He’s so thoughtful, and self-reliant, and—­and competent,” she murmured.  “And he’s brave, and—­and picturesque.  Winthrop is brave, too—­just as brave as he is, but—­he isn’t a bit picturesque.”  She relapsed into silence as she rummaged in the bag for a cup, and the sugar, and a can of milk.  The moon sank behind the ridge and the girl replenished her fire from the pile of wood the Texan had left within reach of her hand.  She drank her coffee and her eyes sought to penetrate the blackness beyond the