“Boy! did you catch them—­fetch them back—­lookin’ for me?”

“I sure did.”

“You caught-that red devil—­an’ fetched him—­back to me?” went on the wondering, faint voice.  “Boy—­oh—­boy!”

He lifted a long, ragged arm and pulled Lucy down.  The action amazed her equally as his passion of gratitude.  He might have been injured, but he had an arm of iron.  Lucy was powerless.  She felt her face against his—­and her breast against his.  The pounding of his heart was like blows.  The first instant she wanted to laugh, despite her pity.  Then the powerful arm—­the contact affected her as nothing ever before.  Suppose this crippled rider had taken her for a boy—­She was not a boy!  She could not help being herself.  And no man had ever put a hand on her.  Consciousness of this brought shame and anger.  She struggled so violently that she freed herself.  And he lay back.

“See here—­that’s no way to act—­to hug—­a person,” she cried, with flaming cheeks.

“Boy, I—­”

“I’m not a boy.  I’m a girl.”

“What!”

Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far forward, and this revealed her face fully, and her hair came tumbling down.  The rider gazed, stupefied.  Then a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks.

“A girl! . . .  Why—­why ’scuse me, miss.  I—­I took you—­for a boy.”

He seemed so astounded, he looked so ashamed, so scared, and withal, so haggard and weak, that Lucy immediately recovered her equanimity.

“Sure I’m a girl.  But that’s no matter. . . .  You’ve been thrown.  Are you hurt?”

He smiled a weak assent.

“Badly?” she queried.  She did not like the way he lay—­so limp, so motionless.

“I’m afraid so.  I can’t move.”

“Oh! . . .  What shall I do?”

“Can you—­get me water?” he whispered, with dry lips.

Lucy flew to her horse to get the small canteen she always carried.  But that had been left on her saddle, and she had ridden Van’s.  Then she gazed around.  The wash she had crossed several times ran near where the rider lay.  Green grass and willows bordered it.  She ran down and, hurrying along, searched for water.  There was water in places, yet she had to go a long way before she found water that was drinkable.  Filling her sombrero, she hurried back to the side of the rider.  It was difficult to give him a drink.

“Thanks, miss,” he said, gratefully.  His voice was stronger and less hoarse.

“Have you any broken bones?” asked Lucy.

“I don’t know.  I can’t feel much.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Hardly.  I feel sort of thick.”

Lucy, being an intelligent girl, born in the desert and used to its needs, had not often encountered a situation with which she was unable to cope.

“Let me feel if you have any broken bones. . . .  That arm isn’t broken, I’m positive.”