ot lift his eyes
to her face, did not note the droop of the weary body. His look was all
for her horse, and a new and unreasonable spurt of anger was in his
heart Through her unbounded ignorance she had needlessly fatigued her
mount, having no knowledge of the ways one employs to save his horse.

Gloria understood dully that she was too far up and must ride down to
his level. She was beyond complaining or asking questions; with a sudden
jerk upon the reins she brought Blackie about. King cursed under his
breath.

"That's too steep!" he called to her. "Want to kill your horse?"

Blackie tried to swerve and sidle down. Gloria lifted her whip and
struck him. Blackie snorted and obeyed her command. Some loose dirt gave
way underfoot, the tired beast stumbled, a dead limb caught at his legs,
tripping him, and Blackie lurched downward and fell. Through the grace
of fortune Gloria rolled clear and unhurt. Blackie got up, tottering,
with one quivering fore-leg lifted. King's face went black with rage.

But this time it was wordless rage. He dismounted and made his way up to
the lamed horse; Gloria, from where she lay, thought at first that of
course he was coming to her. But he kept his back to her as he lifted
the horse's fore-leg and felt tenderly at the wrenched muscle. Gloria,
without stirring, and without experiencing any poignant emotion, watched
him listlessly, then shut her eyes. Her most clear sensation was one of
relief; they would no doubt make camp here.

A cold drop of rain splashed on her cheek. She opened her eyes. King was
removing Blackie's saddle. Gloria closed her eyes again and sighed. A
sort of dreary thankfulness blossomed feebly in her heart that the
torturous day was over. King would make some sort of a shelter; she
would drink a cup of coffee and crawl into her blankets and go to
sleep....

"Come on," called a voice as though from some great distance. "We've got
to hurry as fast as God will let us."

Blackie was standing where King had led him, his saddle and bridle swung
up into a tree, his foot still lifted, his nostrils close to the long
grass but untempted. Gloria's canvas-rolled pack and the rifle were
across King's back. As she sat up and stared at him she read his
intentions. He was going on on foot, expecting her to take his horse.

"I can't," she said miserably.

He looked up into the sky and not at her.

"You can do what you please," he retorted curtly. "I am going on."

She rose