She did not look at the open pack or pay any attention to him.  The drooping posture had been resumed, together with the somber staring at the brook.  Neale watched her in despair, and, watching, he divined that only the most infinite patience and magnetism and power could bring her out of her brooding long enough to give nature a chance.  He recognized how unequal he was to the task.  But the impossible or the unattainable had always roused Neale’s spirit.  Defeat angered him.  This girl was alive; she was not hurt physically; he believed she could be made to forget that tragic night of blood and death.  He set his teeth and swore he would display the tact of a woman, the patience of a saint, the skill of a physician, the love of a father—­anything to hold back this girl from the grave into which she was fading.  Reaching out, he touched her.

“Can you understand me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she murmured.  Her voice was thin, far away, an evident effort.

“I saved your life.”

“I wish you had let me die.”  Her reply was quick with feeling, and it thrilled Neale because it was a proof that he could stimulate or aggravate her mind.

“But I did save you.  Now you owe me something.”

“What?”

“Why, gratitude—­enough to want to live, to try to help yourself.”

“No—­no,” she whispered, and relapsed into the somber apathy.

Neale could scarcely elicit another word from her; then by way of change he held out different articles he had brought—­scarfs, a shawl, a mirror—­and made her look at them.  Her own face in the mirror did not interest her.  He tried to appeal to a girl’s vanity.  She had none.

“Your hair is all tangled,” he said, bringing forth comb and brush.  “Here, smooth it out.”

“No—­no—­no,” she moaned.

“All right, I’ll do it for you,” he countered.  Surprised at finding her passive when he had expected resistance, he began to comb out the tangled tresses.  In his earnestness he did not perceive how singular his action might seem to an onlooker.  She had a mass of hair that quickly began to smooth out and brighten under his hand.  He became absorbed in his task and failed to see the approach of Larry King.

The cowboy was utterly amazed, and presently he grinned his delight.  Evidently the girl was all right and no longer to be feared.

“Wal, shore thet’s fine,” he drawled.  “Neale, I always knowed you was a lady’s man.”  And Larry sat down beside them.

The girl’s face was half hidden under the mass of hair, and her head was lowered.  Neale gave Larry a warning glance, meant to convey that he was not to be funny.

“This is my cowboy friend, Larry Red King,” said Neale.  “He was with me when I—­I found you.”

“Larry—­Red—­King,” murmured the girl.  “My name is—­Allie.”

Again Neale had penetrated into her close-locked mind.  What she said astounded him so that he dropped the brush and stared at Larry.  And Larry lost his grin; he caught a glimpse of her face, and his own grew troubled.