those hideous creatures. No, no!" she implored, as he endeavored
to lift her to her feet. "No--let me stay here close beside you. So,"
clutching the fringe of his leather hunting-shirt, and dragging herself
on her knees nearer him--"so--don't leave me, for God's sake!"

"They are gone," he replied, gazing down curiously at her, as she wound
the fringe around her hand to strengthen her hold; "they're only a lot
of cowardly coyotes and wolves, that dare not attack anything that
lives and can move."

The young woman responded with a nervous shudder. "Yes, that's it," she
whispered, in a broken voice; "it's only the dead they want. Promise
me--swear to me, if I'm caught, or hung, or shot, you won't let me be
left here to be torn and--ah! my God! what's that?"

She had thrown her arms around his knees, completely pinioning him to
her frantic breast. Something like a smile of disdain passed across his
face as he answered, "It's nothing. They will not return. Get up!"

Even in her terror she saw the change in his face. "I know, I know!"
she cried. "I'm frightened--but I cannot bear it any longer. Hear me!
Listen! Listen--but don't move! I didn't mean to kill Curson--no! I
swear to God, no! I didn't mean to kill the sheriff--and I didn't. I
was only bragging--do you hear? I lied! I lied--don't move, I swear to
God I lied. I've made myself out worse than I was. I have. Only don't
leave me now--and if I die--and it's not far off, may be--get me away
from here--and from _them_. Swear it!"

"All right," said the young man, with a scarcely concealed movement of
irritation. "But get up now, and go back to the cabin."

"No; not _there_ alone." Nevertheless, he quietly but firmly released
himself.

"I will stay here," he replied. "I would have been nearer to you, but I
thought it better for your safety that my camp-fire should be further
off. But I can build it here, and that will keep the coyotes off."

"Let me stay with you--beside you," she said imploringly.

She looked so broken, crushed, and spiritless, so unlike the woman of
the morning that, albeit with an ill grace, he tacitly consented, and
turned away to bring his blankets. But in the next moment she was at
his side, following him like a dog, silent and wistful, and even
offering to carry his burden. When he had built the fire, for which she
had collected the pine--cones and broken branches near them, he sat
down, folded his arms, and leaned back against the tree in