There was superb courage in the scornful ferocity with which she retorted.
"Happened! And I suppose you _happened_ to notice that the brand on the cow is a Bar Double G, while that on the calf is different."
"No, I haven't noticed that."
"Plenty of time to see it yet." Then, with a swift blaze of feeling, "What's the use of pretending? I know what you think."
"Then you know more than I do. My thoughts don't go any farther than this, that you have saved my life and I'm grateful for it."
"I know better. You think I'm a rustler. But don't say it. Don't you dare say it."
Brought up in an atmosphere of semi-barbaric traditions, silken-strong, with instincts unwarped by social pressure, she was what the sun and wind and freedom of Arizona had made her, a poetic creation far from commonplace. So he judged her, and in spite of the dastardly thing she had done he sensed an innate refinement strangely at variance with the circumstances.
"All right. I won't," he answered, with a faint smile.
"Now you've got to pay for your sandwiches by making yourself useful. I'm going to finish this job." She said it with an edge of self-scorn. He guessed her furious with self-contempt.
Under her directions he knelt on the calf so as to hold it steady while she plied the hot iron. The odor of burnt hair and flesh was already acrid in his nostrils. Upon the red flank F was written in raw, seared flesh. He judged that the brand she wanted was not yet complete. Probably the iron had got too cold to finish the work, and she had been forced to reheat it.
The little hand that held the running iron was trembling. Looking up, the tenderfoot saw that she was white enough to faint.
"I can't do it. You'll have to let me hold him while you blur the brand," she told him.
They changed places. She set her teeth to it and held the calf steady, but the brander noticed that she had to look away when the red-hot iron came near the flesh of the victim.
"Blur the brand right out. Do it quick, please," she urged.
A sizzle of burning skin, a piteous wail from the tortured animal, an acrid pungent odor, and the thing was done. The girl got to her feet, quivering like an aspen.
"Have you a knife?" she asked faintly.
"Yes."
"Cut the rope."
The calf staggered to all fours, shook itself together, and went bawling to the dead mother.
The girl drew a deep breath. "They say it does not hurt except while it is being done."
His bleak eyes met hers stonily. "And of course it will soon get used to doing without its mother. That is a mere detail."
A shudder went through her.
The whole thing was incomprehensible to him. Why under heaven had she done it? How could one so sensitive have done a wanton cruel thing like this? Her reason he could not fathom. The facts that confronted him were that she _had_ done it, and had meant to carry the crime through. Only detection had changed her purpose.
She turned upon him, plainly sick of the whole business. "Let's get away from here. Where's your horse?"
"I haven't any. I started on foot and got lost."
"From where?"
"From Mammoth."
Sharply her keen eyes fixed him. How could a man have got lost near Mammoth and wandered here? He would have had to cross the range, and even a child would have known enough to turn back into the valley where the town lay.
"How long ago?"
"Day before yesterday." He added after a moment: "I was looking for a job."
She took in the soft hands and the unweathered skin of the dark face. "What sort of a job?"
"Anything I can do."
"But what can you do?"
"I can ride."
She must take him home with her, of course, and feed and rest him. That went without saying. But what after that? He knew too much to be turned adrift with the story of what he had seen. If she could get a hold on him--whether of fear or of gratitude--so as to insure his silence, the truth might yet be kept quiet. At least she could try.
"Did you ever ride the range?"
"No."
"What sort of work have you done?"
After a scarcely noticeable pause, "Clerical work," he answered.
"You're from the East?" she suggested, her eyes narrowing.
"Yes."
"My name is Melissy Lee," she told him, watching him very steadily.
Once more the least of pauses. "Mine is Diller--James Diller."
"That's funny. I know another man of that name. At least, I know him by sight."
The man who had called himself Diller grew wary. "It's a common enough name."
"Yes. If I find you work at my father's ranch would you be too particular about what it is?"
"Try me."
"And your memory--is it inconveniently good?" Her glance swept as by chance over the scene of her recent operations.
"I've got a right good forgettery, too," he assured her.
"You're not in the habit of talking much about the things you see." She put it in the form of a statement, but the rising inflection indicated the interrogative.
His black eyes met hers steadily. "I can padlock my mouth when it is necessary," he answered, the suggestion of a Southern drawl in his intonation.
She wanted an assurance more direct. "When _you_ think it necessary, I suppose."
"That is what I meant to say."
"Come. One good turn deserves another. What about this?" She nodded toward the dead cow.
"I have not seen a thing I ought not to have seen."
"Didn't you see me blot a brand on that calf?"
He shook his head. "Can't recall it at all, Miss Lee."
Swiftly her keen glance raked him again. Judged by his clothes, he was one of the world's ineffectives, flotsam tossed into the desert by the wash of fate; but there was that in the steadiness of his eye, in the set of his shoulders, in the carriage of his lean-loined, slim body that spoke of breeding. He was no booze-fighting grubliner. Disguised though he was in cheap slops, she judged him a man of parts. He would do to trust, especially since she could not help herself.
"We'll be going. You take my horse," she ordered.
"And
