ther woman."

Now she was tempted to wheel her horse, to turn back, to camp alone
somewhere out there in the woods, or to ride the thirty miles back to
Dry Town. And now, remembering the bank notes which had been taken from
her, remembering the insult in the cabin, she held on after him,
resolved that she would not lose sight of this man, that she would see
him handed over to justice when she could taunt him, saying: "I didn't
shoot you, you see, because I am a woman and not a tough. But I have
given you into hands that are not woman's hands, because I hate you so!"

Her horse carried her on at a swift walk, but she did not have to draw
rein to keep from passing Thornton. His long stride was so smooth,
regular, swift and tireless that it soon began to amaze her. They had
passed through the little valley in which Harte's place stood, and
entered a dark canon leading into the steeper hills. The trail was
uneven, and now and then very steep. Yet Thornton pushed on steadily
with no slowing in the swift gait, no sign to tell that he felt fatigue
in muscles of back or legs.

"He must be made of iron," she marvelled.

In an hour they had come to the top of a ridge, and Thornton stopped,
tossing his saddle to the ground. He had not once spoken since they left
the Harte place. Now with quick fingers he made his cigarette. She
stopped a dozen paces from him, and though one would have said that she
was not looking at him, saw the flare of his match, glimpsed the hard
set lines of his face, and knew that he would not speak until she had
spoken. And the lines of her own face grew hard, and she turned away
from him, feeling a quick spurt of anger that she had so much as looked
at him when he had not turned his eyes upon her. He smoked his
cigarette, swept up saddle and bridle, and moved on, striking over the
ridge and down upon the other side.

It was perhaps ten minutes later when she saw, far off to the left, the
glimmer of a light, lost it through the trees, found it again and knew
that it told of some habitation. They came abreast of a branch trail,
leading toward the lighted window; the girl's eager eyes found it
readily, and then noted that Thornton was passing on as though he had
seen neither light nor trail. She spoke hurriedly, saying:

"Isn't that the place? Where the light is?"

"No," he told her colourlessly and without turning. "That's the Henry
place. We're going on to Smith's."

"Why don't we stop here? It's n