ng that he might succeed in
one breath, that he might come back in another, and praying always that
they might both be strong.

Every mile was a mile deeper into the eternity of her love . . . he
knew that; but he also knew that the fulfilment of duty meant
renunciation. Was it the cry of the flesh? Wayland scoffed the
thought. Flesh in the frontier West doesn't take the trouble to wear
fig-leaf signs. It is blazoning, bold, unashamed, known for what it
is; but there is no confusion of values. He who wills takes what he
wills and wears the mark. Wayland had been long enough away from the
confused values of more civilized lands to know belladonna eyes from
starlight; and he knew what his being craved was not carrion. It was
what harmonizes both flesh and spirit, and lifts the temporal to
eternity. Eternity . . . he laughed again. Eternity was too short;
and that was what renunciation meant, giving up a citadel against all
the harking cares and hells of hate in life.

Where they had picked up the fugitives' trail again on the fourth day
from the snow slide, the Ranger had taken stock of provisions. We none
of us know just how long the Trail is to be when we set out. Flour and
tea enough for a month's travel: of bacon and canned beans, only a
day's supply remained.

"Yes, on your life, forward, long as there's a mouthful left . . . push
on," Matthews had urged.

Wayland expostulated: "Do you know what Desert travel means?"

"No, an' care less! If y' want to get anywhere, ye don't set out to
turn back! Dante's inner circle was ice! A've had that! Now, A'll
take a nip of his outer circle and try your blue blazing Desert."

"It'll be blue all right, sir! You'll know it when you come to it by
the shadows being blue instead of black."

And always, the trail had grown rockier, the forests more scattered,
the trees scantier and dwarfed, till the way led from clump to clump of
scrub pinon amid red buttes and sand hummocks. And always, the valleys
widened and lifted to higher table lands, blasted and shrivelled and
tremulous of heat, till the mountains lay on the far sky-line silver
strips flecked with purple, like shores to an ocean of pure light. And
always, it was the trail of fleeing horsemen they followed, with one
track running aside from the others picking the softest places.

"Only one pack horse and that lame," Wayland pointed to the foot
prints. "That means they must have provisions cached