You could give it up, and go back to your work among men, where it
would count," she said.

"There are things here that count. I couldn't put a state on the
map--an industrial and progressive one, I mean--back home in
Washington, or sitting with my feet on the desk in some sleepy
consulate. And I'm going to put this state on the map where it
belongs. That's the job that's cut out for me here, Miss Landcraft."

He said it without boast, but with such a stubborn note of determination
that she felt something lift within her, raising her to the plane of
his aspirations. She knew that Alan Macdonald was right about it,
although the thing that he would do was still dim in her perception.

"Even then, I don't see what a ranch away off up here from anywhere
ever will be worth to you, especially when the post is abandoned. You
know the department is going to give it up?"

"And then you--" he began in consternation, checking himself to add,
slowly, "no, I didn't know that."

"Perhaps in a year."

"It can't make much difference in the value of land up this valley,
though," he mused. "When the railroad comes on through--and that will
be as soon as we break the strangle hold of Chadron and men like
him--this country will develop overnight. There's petroleum under the
land up where I am, lying shallow, too. That will be worth something
then."

The music of an old-style dance was being played. Now the piping
cowboy voice of some range cavalier rose, calling the figures. The two
in the garden path turned with one accord and faced away from the
bright windows again.

"They'll be unmasking at midnight?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid I can't go in again, then. The hour of my enchantment is
nearly at its end."

"You shouldn't have come," she chided, yet not in severity, rather in
subdued admiration for his reckless bravery. "Suppose they--"

"Mac! O Mac!" called a cautious, low voice from a hydrangea bush close
at hand.

"Who's there?" demanded Macdonald, springing forward.

"They're onto you, Mac," answered the voice from the shrub, "they're
goin' to do you hurt. They're lookin' for you now!"

There was a little rustling in the leaves as the unseen friend moved
away. The voice was the voice of Banjo Gibson, but not even the shadow
of the messenger had been seen.

"You should have gone before--hurry!" she whispered in alarm.

"Never mind. It was a risk, and I took it, and I'd take it again
tomorrow. It gave me these