"I'm picturing an angel," bantered Lennon. "Your father must be a fine man to have two such daughters."
The flush in the girl's tanned cheeks deepened. But the soft glow of her eyes faded and left them dull and haggard.
"Dad's been unlucky all 'round," she murmured. "Not his fault, either. He came West for his health—almost died—one lung gone."
"Hard lines," sympathized Lennon. "Ranch work can't be easy for a sick man."
The girl climbed to another terrace before she replied:
"That's not the worst of it. Slade came six years ago—when we were starving. Dad got in with him. He can't break loose. If only we could get away, Dad would be all right."
"Yes?" said Lennon.
Carmena remained silent until he came panting up after her to the top of the steepest ascent. While he paused to catch his breath she opened the canteen. They were by now badly in need of a drink. Before starting on up the ledges she met Lennon's smiling gaze with a look of tremulous appeal.
"Dad used to be a lawyer," she faltered. "If only you'll try to like him and—and help."
"Of course!" exclaimed Lennon. "Aren't we pals? You're pulling me through this scrape. Perhaps I can pull him out of his hole. You called it Dead Hole, didn't you?"