"I saw that
somethin' had got you. That you were hard hit! I've been near you for
the last two or three hours. I don't know as I'd have bothered you
now, if I hadn't been afraid you'd fall over. Let's go back,
Dick--back to the mine."

It seemed as if there had come to him in the night a strong support.
Numbed and despairing, but with a strange relief, he permitted Bill to
lead him back over the trail, and at last, when they were standing
above the dim buildings below, found speech.

"It's her," he said. "It's for her sake that I hate to do it. It's
Joan!"

"Sit down here by me," the big voice, commiserating, said. "Here on
this timber. I've kept it to myself, boy, but I know all about her. I
stood on the bank, where I'd just gone to hunt you, on that day she
reached down from the saddle. I knew the rest, and slipped away. You
love her. She's done somethin' to you."

"No!" the denial was emphatic. "She hasn't! She's as true as the
hills. It's her father. Look here!"

He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the crumpled sheet, and struck a
match. Bill took the letter in his hands and read, while the night
itself seemed pausing to shield the flickering flame. With hurried
fingers he struck another match, and the light flared up, exposing his
frowning eyebrows, the lights in his keen eyes, the tight pressure of
his firm lips.

He handed the letter back, and for a long time sat silently staring
before him, his big, square shoulders bent forward, and his hat
outlined against the light of the night, which was steadily
increasing.

"I see how it is," he said at last. "And it's hard on you, isn't it,
boy? A man can stand anything himself, but it's hell to hurt those we
care for."

The sympathy of his voice cut like a knife, with its merciful hurt.
Dick broke into words, telling of his misery, but stammering as strong
men stammer, when laying bare emotions which, without pressure, they
always conceal. His partner listened, motionless, absorbing it all,
and his face was concealed by the darkness, otherwise a great
sympathy would have flared from his eyes.

"We've got to find a way out of this, Dick," he said at last, with a
sigh. And the word "we" betrayed more fully than long sentences his
compassion. "We must go slow. Somehow, I reckon, I'm cooler than you
in this kind of a try-out. Maybe because it don't hit me so close to
home. Let's go back, boy, back to the cabin, and try to rest. The
daylight is like the Lord's