over the back trail.

He thought if there had been more time she might have said, "I will come
again soon--perhaps to-morrow." He liked to think she might have said
that, but he could not give it much reality.

He sprawled easily in the saddle, leaning his crossed arms on the pommel
and gazing out over the sun-shot valley to the group of buildings and
corrals at Bar-7. At least she rode somewhere every afternoon, and he
would see her leave. If she turned down the valley road or up the
canyon--well, that emergency could be met. He thought of speeches to make
it plain that he had not followed her, daring to approach her in his
mind, but knowing well that he would probably hide at sight of her.

A half hour he waited so, beholding visions of their accidental meeting.
Then his pulses raced. He saw the stocky-barreled Cooney led from the
corral to the front of the house by Red Phinney. He could almost discern
the Sabbath finery of Red across that crystal mile--for this was the
breathing day of the week, when faces were rasped cruelly by indifferent
razors, and fine raiment was donned, black trousers and gay, clean
shirts and neckerchiefs of flaming silk.

He could not see her mount. The ranch house hid that spectacle. But she
rode into view presently, putting Cooney first to his little fox trot
and then to a lope, as the road wound among the willows.

He straightened in the saddle as she reached the creek. He was eager to
retreat, yet feared to have his cowardice detected. And when Cooney
halted midway of the stream, pawing its rocky bed and making a pretense
of thirst, the woman looked up and saw her watcher on the trail. She
waved the gauntleted hand that held her quirt, and he found himself
holding his hat in his hand with an affectation of ease. Then each
laughed, and, though neither could hear the other, it was as if they had
laughed together in some little flurry of understanding. He could still
pretend to have happened there at that moment, he reflected. And this
brought him courage as he saw her give Cooney his way where the trail
branched. When the little horse had carried her to the summit and stood
in panting gratitude, the waiting youth evolved a splendid plan for
hiding his fright. He dismounted and forced himself to go coolly and
take her hand. Perhaps it was as well that he had not trusted himself to
remain in the saddle at that first moment. But when the thing was really
over he no longer made a secret of