“NITA, what’n the mischief you doin’ here? And it pretty near dark!”
Mart Canby, recognizing his sister’s voice, galloped swiftly to meet her at the edge of Stlingbloke.
“Oh, Mart!” she cried in a low, tense tone. “I’ve had a dreadful experience. Let’s get out of here. Come on; I’ll tell you as we ride.”
“But I gotta find the sheriff,” persisted the messenger with his old boy-on-the-burning-deck determination.
“He’s not here; come on. Please, Martie!”
They galloped down the now noisy street to Stlingbloke, and took to the desert, which now seemed more friendly than ever to the girl, who loved it always.
“What was you doin’ there, Nita? That ain’t no place for you. You was chasin’ me!”
“I know it. I admit it. I’ll tell you if you’ll give me time.”
“Where you goin’? Don’t cut across the desert, I gotta follow the grade. I missed the sheriff. He——”
“I know. But he’s not at Stlingbloke. He rode on through, on his way back. Maybe he has gone back to Mangan-Hatton’s for to-night. You can find him better to-morrow morning.”