Instead, she spent the time in wondering if Tango would let her catch him in the corral; in fretting because she must wait at all, when there was no telling what might have happened at Sinkhole; and in giving audience to a temptation that came with the lagging minutes and began persuading her that Tango was too slow for the trip she had before her; and in climbing into bed, turning over three times and climbing out again, leaving the light covering in its usual heap in the middle.
It was half-past nine when she climbed out of her window with her riding shoes and puttees, her lunch and her camera and her field glasses, in a bundle under one arm.

She went in her moccasins until she had passed the bunk house and reached the shed where she kept her saddle.
A dozen horses were dozing over by the feed rack in the corral, and Mary V's eyes strayed often that way while she was clothing her feet for the ride.

Tango was a good little horse, but he was not the horse for a heroine to ride when she went out across the desert at midnight to rescue--er--a good-for-nothing, conceited, quarrelsome, altogether unbearable young man whom she thoroughly hated, but who was, after all, a human being and therefore to be rescued when necessary.
Would she dare--?
Mary V hurried the last puttee buckle, picked up her bridle and a battered feed pan, and went quietly across the corral.
Wondering if she would dare made her daring.
Most of the horses sidled off from her approach and began to circle slowly to the far side of the corral.

Tango lifted his head and looked at her reproachfully, moved his feet as though tempted to retreat, and thought better of it.

What was the use?
Mary V always did what she wanted to do; if not in one way, then in another.