"It was until this morning. We are going to put in a dam." He frowned upon her, unable to free himself from alarm. "I did not dream of any one being near. What brought you so far up the cañon?"
"I brung you the pick."
She stooped toward it, and two or three drops of blood trickled across her hand.
"You are hurt, see!" said Sterling anxiously.
The girl turned back her sleeve and showed a trifling wound.
"I must 'a' scratched it on the Spanish bayonet when I fell. It's no difference. Nothin' struck me. Lysander's gettin' ready to irrigate; he said if you wanted any more tools sharpened, I could fetch 'em down to the forge."
The young man showed a preoccupied indifference to her message. Producing a silk handkerchief, fabulously fine in Melissa's eyes, he bound up the injured wrist, with evident pride in his own deftness and skill.
"Are you quite sure you are able to walk now?" he asked kindly.
"Why, I ain't hurt a bit; not a speck," reiterated the girl, her eyes widening.
Her companion's face relaxed into the suggestion of a smile. He helped her up the bank, making way for her in the chaparral, and tearing away the tangled ropes of the wild-grape vines.