antique overcoats, and good advice. He spoke vaguely
of a third blanket for himself. And he had one. Its dimensions were
thirteen by twenty inches, it was of white wool, he had bought it in
Dakota for Vere de Vere, and many times that day he had patted it and
whispered, "Poor old cat."

Under his blankets Mr. Boltwood thought of rattlesnakes, bears,
rheumatism, Brooklyn, his debt to Milt, and the fact that--though he
hadn't happened to mention it to Claire--he had expected to be killed
when the brake had burned out.

Claire was drowsily happy. She had got through. She was conscious of
rustling sagebrush, of the rapids of the Yellowstone beside her, of open
sky and sweet air and a scorn for people in stuffy rooms, and
comfortably ever conscious of Milt, ten feet away. She had in him the
interest that a young physician would have in a new X-ray machine, a
printer in a new font of type, any creator in a new outlet for his
power. She would see to it that her Seattle cousins, the Gilsons, helped
him to know the right people, during his university work. She herself
would be back in Brooklyn, but perhaps he would write to her,
write--write letters--Brooklyn--she was in Brooklyn--no, no, where was
she?--oh, yes, camping--bad day--brakes---- No, she would not marry Jeff
Saxton! Brooklyn--river singing--stars----

And when Milt wasn't unromantically thinking of his cold back, he
exulted. "She won't be back among her own folks till Seattle. Probably
forget me then. Don't blame her. But till we get there, she'll let me
play in her yard. Gee! In the morning I'll be talking to her again, and
she's right there, right now!"

In the morning they were all very stiff, but glad of the sun on
sagebrush and river, and the boy and girl sang over breakfast. While
Milt was gathering fuel he looked up at Claire standing against a
background of rugged hills, her skirt and shoes still smug, but her
jacket off, her blouse turned in at the throat, her hair blowing, her
sleeves rolled up, one hand on her hip, erect, charged with vigor--the
spirit of adventure.

When her brake had been relined, at Livingston, they sauntered
companionably on to Butte. And the day after Butte, when Milt was half a
mile behind the Gomez, a pink-haired man with a large, shiny revolver
stepped out from certain bushes, and bowed politely, and at that point
Milt stopped.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SPECTACLES OF AUTHORITY

Over the transcontinental divide and into B