tion. Once on the mesa, Pat dashed off ecstatically
in the direction of the mountains. The pace
was thrilling. The rush of the crisp wind, together
with the joy of swift motion, sent tingling blood
into Helen's cheeks, while the horse, racing along
at top speed, flung out his hoofs with a vigor that
told of the riot of blood within him. Thus they
continued, until in the shadow of the mountains -- just
now draped in their most delicate coloring,
the pink that accompanies sunbeams streaming
through fading haze -- she pulled Pat down and
gave herself over to the beauty of the scene. The
horse, also appreciative, came to a ready stop
and turned his eyes out over the desert in slow-blinking
earnestness.

"Pat!" suddenly cried Helen. She pulled his
head gently around in the direction of the mountain
trail. "Look off there!"

Above the distant trail hung a thin cloud of
dust, and under the cloud of dust, and rolling
heavily toward town, creaked a lumber rigging,
piled high with wood and drawn by a pair of
plodding horses -- plodding despite the bite and
snarl of a whip swung with merciless regularity.
The whip was in the hands of a brawny Mexican,
who, seated confidently on the high load, appeared
utterly indifferent to the trembling endeavors of
his scrawny team. He was inhaling the smoke of
a cigarette, and with every puff mechanically
flaying the horses. The spectacle aroused deep
sympathy in the girl.

"Only consider, Pat!" she exclaimed, after a

[[74]]

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