Far up beneath the shoulder of a butte a little spring of delicious water bubbled from the gravelly soil, trickled a few hundred yards, and disappeared. It was hidden by willow and cottonwood, draped with greenery, an oasis. Here they dismounted, drank the sweet spring water, watered the horses, and rested. Clyde sat down, leaning against a convenient tree. Casey stretched himself against another, his hands clasped behind his head, a long, thin cigar clenched between his teeth.
Through the fragrant smoke he eyed his companion in lazy content, noting how the mottled sunlight, filtering through the leaves, touched her glorious hair to living, coppery gold.
"Did you ever have your picture painted?" he asked suddenly.
"Why, no," she replied. "Whatever made you think of that?"
"Your hair and the sunlight on it. If I were a painter I should like to paint you now—and keep the picture."
"The first compliment you have ever paid me," she laughed, pleased nevertheless. "I shall remember it."
"And that's a compliment to me," he responded. "Funny what we recollect and what we don't. There doesn't seem to be any rule for it. But I think I shall always remember just how you look at this moment."
"That's very nice."
"I wonder if I may ask you something without offending you?"
"I don't think you would ask anything that should offend me."