She soon found the horse’s tracks, and, with her bridle over her arm, followed them to a little clearing at the edge of the stream. And there sat a young man in an attitude of dejection, with his head resting on one hand, the other hanging limply beside him.
At the sound of her approach he tried to start to his feet, but sunk down again, and, clutching the revolver he had drawn from his belt, stared at her questioningly.
Esmeralda’s quick eyes noted that he was young, that his eyes were blue, his hair yellow and curly; a slight golden mustache fringed his upper lip. He was dressed in a rough suit, with high riding-boots, and a red shirt. But, even to Esmeralda’s unsophisticated eyes, he looked somewhat different to the ordinary digger.
She stood and looked at him with the gravity of maiden innocence and fearlessness; and he, having at last got over his amazement at this sudden apparition of feminine grace and loveliness, as sudden as it was extraordinary in this wild place, dropped his revolver and raised his hat.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, and a faint color came into his face; “but could you tell me where I am?”
“Don’t you know?” said Esmeralda, rather unreasonably.
“I don’t,” he said; “I’ve lost my way.”
“This is the Wally Valley,” she said.
“Thank you. I’ve just come from Dog’s Ear Camp, and I want to find one called—called— I can’t remember the name; but it’s something to do with brandy.”