with an Apache mother, a Mexican father, and, somewhere in the States, an Irish husband named Gallagher. The mongrel lady looked a monument of safety to Nan in her present plight.
And Ben Evans—what must he think? She was conscious that she cared what he thought. Some way, some time, she told herself, she must find an opportunity to explain something of the circumstances.
She fell into a doze, and when she awakened Mrs. Gallagher was regarding her from the doorway while she deftly rolled a brown-paper cigarette.
"He's gone," vouchsafed that person briefly.
Nan sprang out with energy.
"And we must go, too—at once!"
Mrs. Gallagher shrugged a lean shoulder.
"Yes, he'll be back; but how we go?"
"I can ride."
"What?" Mrs. Gallagher made an expressive gesture. "All the horses are turned out; mine, too."
Nan raised the window-shade and stared at an empty corral.
