not speak again. Presently he fell asleep.

Joan leaned back, within reach of him, with her head in her saddle, and
pulling a blanket up over her, relaxed her limbs to rest. Sleep seemed
the furthest thing from her. She wondered that she dared to think of it.
The night had grown chilly; the wind was sweeping with low roar through
the balsams; the fire burned dull and red. Joan watched the black,
shapeless hulk that she knew to be Gulden. For a long time he remained
motionless. By and by he moved, approached the fire, stood one moment
in the dying ruddy glow, his great breadth and bulk magnified, with
all about him vague and shadowy, but the more sinister for that. The
cavernous eyes were only black spaces in that vast face, yet Joan saw
them upon her. He lay down then among the other men and soon his deep
and heavy breathing denoted the tranquil slumber of an ox.

For hours through changing shadows and starlight Joan lay awake, while
a thousand thoughts besieged her, all centering round that vital and
compelling one of Jim Cleve.

Only upon awakening, with the sun in her face, did Joan realize that she
had actually slept.

The camp was bustling with activity. The horses were in, fresh and
quarrelsome, with ears laid back. Kells was sitting upon a rock near the
fire with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was looking better. When
he greeted Joan his voice sounded stronger. She walked by Pearce and
Frenchy and Gulden on her way to the brook, but they took no notice of
her. Bate Wood, however, touched his sombrero and said: "Mornin', miss."
Joan wondered if her memory of the preceding night were only a bad
dream. There was a different atmosphere by daylight, and it was
dominated by Kells. Presently she returned to camp refreshed and hungry.
Gulden was throwing a pack, which action he performed with ease and
dexterity. Pearce was cinching her saddle. Kells was talking, more like
his old self than at any time since his injury.

Soon they were on the trail. For Joan time always passed swiftly on
horseback. Movement and changing scene were pleasurable to her. The
passing of time now held a strange expectancy, a mingled fear and hope
and pain, for at the end of this trail was Jim Cleve. In other days she
had flouted him, made fun of him, dominated him, everything except loved
and feared him. And now she was assured of her love and almost convinced
of her fear. The reputation these wild bandits gave Jim was astounding
and inex