"A Mr. Blake--Thomas Blake," she supplied the name. "I thought you might have known him."

"Ah--Blake?" he murmured hesitatingly. "Why, yes, I did at one time have somewhat of an acquaintance with him."

"You did?" she cried, her eyes brilliant with excitement. "Oh, tell me! I--" She faltered under his surprised stare, and went on rather lamely: "You see, I--we have been immensely interested in the Zariba Dam. The reports all describe it as an extraordinary work of engineering. And so we have been curious to learn something about the engineer."

"But if you're so opposed to irrigation projects?" he thrust.

"That makes no difference," she parried. "We--Daddy and I--cannot but admire such a remarkable engineer."

Ashton shrugged. "The dam was a big thing. I fail to see why you should admire Blake just because he happened to blunder on the idea that solved the difficulty."

"You do not like him," she said with frank directness.

He hesitated and looked away. When he replied it was with evident reluctance: "No, I do not. He is--You would hardly admire him personally, even though he did bully Genevieve Leslie into marrying him."

"He is married?" exclaimed the girl.

"No wonder you are surprised," said Ashton. "It was the most amazing thing imaginable--she the daughter of H. V. Leslie, one of our wealthiest financiers, and he a rough, uncouth drunkard."

"Drunkard?" almost screamed the girl. "No, no, not drunkard! I cannot believe it!"

"He certainly was one until just before Genevieve married him,"

insisted Ashton. "I hear he has managed to keep sober since."

"O-o-oh!" sighed Miss Isobel, making no effort to conceal her vast relief. She attempted a smile. "I am so glad to hear that he is all right now. Of course he must be!... You say he married an heiress?"

"She is worth three millions in her own right, and Leslie is as daft over him as she is. Leslie and my father are the ones who backed him on the Zariba Dam."

"How interesting! And I suppose Mr. Blake is a Western man. So many of the best engineers come from the West."

Ashton looked at her suspiciously. He could not make out her interest in Blake. She apparently had come to regard the engineer as a sort of hero. Yet why should she continue to inquire about him, now that she knew he was a married man?

"I'm sure I cannot tell you," he replied, somewhat stiffly. "The fellow seems to have come from nowhere. Had it not been for an accident, he would never have got within speaking distance of Genevieve, but they happened to be shipwrecked together alone--on the coast of Africa."

"Wrecked?--shipwrecked? How perfectly glorious!"

"I wouldn't mind it myself--with you!" he flashed back.

"I might," she bantered. "This Mr. Blake, I imagine, was hardly a tenderfoot."

"No, he was a roughneck," muttered Ashton.

"You do not like him," she remarked the second time.

"Why should I, a low fellow like that? I've heard that he even brags that he started in the Chicago slums."

The girl put her hand to her bosom. "In the--the Chicago slums!" she half whispered.

"No wonder you are surprised," said Ashton. "Anyone would presume that he would keep such a disgrace to himself. It shows what he is--absolutely devoid of good taste."

"Is he--What does he look like?" she eagerly inquired.

Ashton shrugged. "Pardon me. I prefer not to talk any more about the fellow."

Miss Isobel checked her curiosity. "Very well, Mr. Ashton." She looked around, and suddenly flourished her leathern quirt. "Look--there are Kid and Daddy trying to head us. Come on, if you want a race. I'm going to beat them down to Dry Fork."

CHAPTER IV

DOWNHILL AND UP

The lash of the quirt fell with a swish on the flank of the girl's pony. He did not wait for a second hint, but started down the steep slope "on the jump." Before Ashton realized what was happening, his own horse was following at the same breakneck pace.

Down plunged the two ponies--down, down, down the sharply pitched mountain side, leaping logs and stones, crashing through brush, scrambling or slithering stiff-legged down rock slides. It was a wild race, a race that would have been utterly foolhardy with any other horses than these mountain bred cow ponies. A single misstep would have sent horse and rider rolling for yards, unless sooner brought up against tree or rock.

Most of the color had left Ashton's cheeks, but his full lips were set in resolute lines. His gaze alertly took in the ground before his horse and at the same time the girl's graceful, swaying figure.

Fortunately he knew enough to let his horse pick his own way. But such a way as it was! Had not the two animals been as surefooted as goats and as quick as cats, both must have pitched head over heels, not once, but a score of times.

They had leaped down over numbers of rocks and logs and ledges, and the girl had not cast back a single glance to see if Ashton was following. But as they plunged down an open slope she suddenly twisted about and flung up a warning hand.

"Here's a jump!" she cried--as though they had not been jumping every few yards since the beginning of that mad descent.

Hardly had she faced about again when her pony leaped and dropped with her clear out of sight. Ashton gasped and started to draw rein. He was too late. Three strides brought his horse to a ledge fully six feet high. The beast leaped over the edge without making the slightest effort to check himself.

Ashton uttered a startled cry, but poised himself for the shock with the cleverness of a skillful rider. His pony landed squarely, and at once started on again as if nothing unusual had happened.

The girl was already racing down the lower slope, which was more moderate, or rather, less immoderate than that above the ledge. She looked around and waved her hand gayly when she saw that Ashton had kept his seat.

The salute so fired him that he gave his pony the spur and dashed recklessly down to overtake her. At last he raced alongside and a little past her. She looked at his overridden pony and drew rein.

"Hold on," she said. "Better pull up a bit. You don't want to blow your hawss. 'Tisn't everyone can take that jump as neatly as he did."

"But the others?" he panted--"they'll beat us!"

"They cut down to the right. It's nothing to worry about if they do head us. They've got the best hawsses. We'll jog the rest of the way."

"Of course," he hastened to agree, "if you prefer."

"I'd prefer to lope uphill and down, but--" she nodded towards his pony's heaving flanks--"no use riding a willing hawss to death."

"No danger of that with this old nag. He's tough as a mule," Ashton a.s.sured her, though he followed her example by pulling his mount in to a walk.

"A mule knows enough to balk when he's got enough," she informed him.

He did not reply. With the lessening of his excitement habit sent his hand to his open packet of cigarettes. He had not smoked since before shooting the calf. As they came down into the shallow valley between the foot of the mesa and a parallel line of low rocky hills he could wait no longer. His lighter was already half raised to the gilt-tipped cigarette when it was checked by etiquette. He bowed to the girl as a matter of form.