e than Daniel, or Montoyo, or
the Indian chief, or the wide world of other men could boast.

Soon she spoke, at times, musingly.

"I did make up to you, at first," she said. "In Omaha, and on the train."

"Did you?" I smiled. She was so childishly frank.

"But that was only passing. Then in Benton I knew you were different. I
wondered what it was; but you were different from anybody that I had met
before. There's always such a moment in a woman's life."

I soberly nodded. Nothing could be a platitude in such a place and such an
hour.

"I wished to help you. Do you believe that now?"

"I believe you, dear heart," I assured.

"But it was partly because I thought you could help me," she said, like a
confession. And she added: "I had nothing wrong in mind. You were to be a
friend, not a lover. I had no need of lovers; no, no."

We were silent for an interval. Again she spoke.

"Do you care anything about my family? I suppose not. That doesn't matter,
here. But you wouldn't be ashamed of them. I ran away with Montoyo. I
thought he was something else. How could I go home after that? I tried to
be true to him, we had plenty of money, he was kind to me at first, but he
dragged me down and my father and mother don't know even yet. Yes, I tried
to help him, too. I stayed. It's a life that gets into one's blood. I
feared him terribly, in time. He was a breed, and a devil--a gentleman
devil." She referred in the past tense, as to some fact definitely bygone.
"I had to play fair with him, or---- And when I had done that, hoping,
why, what else could I do or where could I go? So many people knew me."
She smiled. "Suddenly I tied to you, sir. I seemed to feel--I took the
chance."

"Thank God you did," I encouraged.

"But I would not have wronged myself, or you, or him," she eagerly
pursued. "I never did wrong him." She flushed. "No man can convict me. You
hurt me when you refused me, dear; it told me that you didn't understand.
Then I was desperate. I had been shamed before you, and by you. You were
going, and not understanding, and I couldn't let you. So I did follow you
to the wagon train. You were my star. I wonder why. I did feel that you'd
get me out--you see, I was so madly selfish, like a drowning person. I
clutched at you; might have put you under while climbing up, myself."

"We have climbed together," said I. "You have made me into a man."

"But I forced myself on you. I played you against Daniel. I foresaw th