He couldn't shoot; and, if he couldn't pray, what would she think of him?
"Why, I think I could manage to say it with help," he answered uneasily.
"But what if that man should suddenly appear on the scene ?" "You don't think the prayer is any good, or you wouldn't say that." She said it sadly, hopelessly.
"O, why, certainly," he said, "only I thought there might be some better time to try it; but, if you say so, we'll stop right here." He sprang to the ground, and offered to assist her; but she was beside him before he could get around his horse's head.
Down she dropped, and clasped her hands as a little child might have done, and closed her eyes.
"Our Father," she repeated slowly, precisely, as if every word belonged to a charm and must be repeated just right or it would not work.

The man's mumbling words halted after hers.

He was reflecting upon the curious tableau they would make to the chance passer-by on the desert if there were any passers-by.

It was strange, this aloneness.

There was a wideness here that made praying seem more natural than it would have been at home in the open country.
The prayer, by reason of the unaccustomed lips, went slowly; but, when it was finished, the girl sprang to her saddle again with a businesslike expression.
"I feel better," she said with a winning smile.