Marching Sands
great pains to protect their skin from exposure to the sun.
There was the stamp of pride in the brown face, and the head poised erect on strong young shoulders. Gray knew horses. And this woman reminded him of a thoroughbred. Later, he was to find that his estimate of her pride was accurate; for the present, he was hardly in the mood to make other and stronger deductions concerning the girl.
He flushed, hoping that it did not show under the sand.
"Right," he admitted with a rueful smile. "Beneath the mud and dirt, I happen to be an Aryan."
"An Englishman?" she asked quickly, almost skeptically, "Or American?"
"American," he admitted. "My name is Robert Gray."
Her glance flickered curiously at this. He was not too miserable to wonder who she was. What was a white woman doing in this stretch of the Gobi? A white woman who was master, or rather mistress of a large caravan, and seemed quite at home in her surroundings?
He wondered why he had flushed. And why he felt so uncomfortable under her quiet gaze. To his utter surprise the frown cleared from her brow, and her lips parted in a quick smile which crept into her eyes. Then she was serious again. But he
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