I would ruther have their ill-will as their
good-will. Don't you have no regards for them that is good friends to
you? _I_ care. _I_ understand what it was you was tryin' to do. I thort
it was fine. Air you goin' to break my heart by stayin' here to git
yourself killed? Oh, don't do it, Creed. You let me take you out of the
mountains, or I'll never know what it is to sleep in peace."

His arm slipped softly round her waist and drew her close against his
side, so close that the two young creatures, standing silent in the midst
of the warm summer night, could almost hear the beating of each other's
heart. In spite of their desperate situation they were tremulously
happy.

"I thank my God for you, Judith," murmured Creed, bending to lay his
cheek timidly against hers. "Never was a man in trouble had such a sweet
helper. It's mighty near worth it all to have found you. Maybe you never
would have cared for me at all if this hadn't come about--if I hadn't
needed you so bad."

Judith's lavish heart would have hastened to break its alabaster jar of
ointment at love's feet with the impetuous avowal that he had been dear
to her since first she looked on him. But there was instant need of
haste; the situation was full of danger; that confession, with all its
sweetness, might well wait a more secure time and place. She got to her
horse glowing with hope, feeling herself equal to the dubious enterprise
before them.

"Whatever you say honey," Creed assured her. "Do with me as you will. I'm
your man now."

They had wheeled their mounts toward the open.

"Hark! What's that?" whispered Judith.

The quavering cry of a screech-owl came across the gulch to them. The
girl crouched in her saddle, shivering slightly, and stroking Selim's
nose so that he might make no stir nor sound.

"They use--that--for a signal," she breathed at last. "The boys is out
guardin' the trails. And 'pears like they're a-movin'. We got to go
quick."

They set forth in silence; Judith riding ahead, skirted at a considerable
distance the buildings on the old Turrentine place, then followed down a
rocky stream-bed, dry now and leading abruptly into a ravine. Here the
girl took her bearings by the summits she could see black against the
star-lit sky, and, avoiding the open, made for the old Indian trail which
would lead them directly down to Garyville. They could ride abreast
sometimes, and they began to talk together in these broken intervals.

"And Litt