“I could summon every man in this town if necessary,” she said; “I am empowered by law to do so; but—I shall not—yet. Where could we find a keeper—the nearest patrol?”
“Please follow me,” he said, mounting his horse and wheeling eastward.
In a few moments they came to a foot-trail, and turned into it at a canter, skirting the Spirit Water, which stretched away between two mountains glittering in the sun.
“How many men can you get?” she called forward.
“I don’t know; there’s a gang of men terracing below the lodge—”
“Call them all; let every man bring a pick and shovel. There is a guard now!”
Burleson pulled up short and shouted, “Murphy!”
The patrol turned around.
“Get the men who are terracing the lodge. Bring picks, shovels, and axes, and meet me here. Run for it!”
The fire-warden’s horse walked up leisurely; the girl had relinquished the bridle and was guiding the mare with the slightest pressure of knee and heel. She sat at ease, head lowered, absently retying the ribbon on the hair at her neck. When it was adjusted to her satisfaction she passed a hat-pin through her sombrero, touched the bright, thick hair above her forehead, straightened out, stretching her legs in the stirrups. Then she drew off her right gauntlet, and very discreetly stifled the daintiest of yawns.