The girl looked him up and down with sharp appraisal.
There was no hint of timidity in his smile.
"Don't figure there's any joke about a bunch of bronchos," she said. "They like to kill just for pure devilment, and when they can make it without risk, their choice of game is a white man."
"Or woman," put in Lennon, no longer smiling.
"Choicer still. But a man will do. How about that hole in your hat? Hadn't you better catch the first train East, and keep going?"
Lennon flushed, rallied himself, and smiled.
"I didn't come to Arizona for my health. I might say it was on business, but I've no objection to a bit of sport on the side."
The dark eyes of the girl flashed with a look of almost fierce intensity.
"I'll call your bluff," she challenged. "We'll see if you're four-flushing. Dead Hole—Dad's ranch—is only a few miles southeast of Triple Butte, the mountain you're headed for. I know the short cut across the Basin. Want to come along?"
"The Indians," protested Lennon. "No, do not misunderstand me, please. It is all right for a man to take chances. But a girl like you——"