ing that afternoon and the saddle horses were at the long
hitching post in front of the hotel when Symes came down the street as
Essie stepped from the doorway. She bowed as he passed, while Van Lennop
mechanically raised his hat. The half-burnt cigar stayed in the corner
of Symes's mouth, his hands in his trousers pockets, and his grudging
nod was an insult, the greater that a few steps on he lifted his hat
with a sweeping bow to Mrs. Alva Jackson.

Van Lennop's face reddened under its tan.

"Does he--do that often?" His voice was quiet, but there was a quaver in
it.

"Often," Essie Tisdale answered.

They galloped out of town in silence. The incident seemed to have robbed
the day of its brightness for the girl and a frown rested upon Van
Lennop's usually calm face. They often rode in silence, but it was the
silence of comradeship and understanding; it was nothing like this which
was lasting for a mile or more. She made an effort at speech after
awhile, but it was plainly an effort, and he answered in monosyllables.
She glanced at him sideways once or twice and she saw that his eyes were
narrowed in thought and their grayness was steel.

When the town was lost to sight and their horses had dropped to a walk
on the sandy road which stretched to the horizon, Essie turned in her
saddle and looked behind her.

"I wish we were never going back!" she said impulsively. "I hate it all!
I wish we were going on and on--anywhere--but back--don't you?"

His eyes were upon her as she spoke, and he had no notion how they
softened, while her color rose at something in his voice as he
answered--

"I can imagine worse things in life than riding 'on and on' with Essie
Tisdale. But"--his tone took on a new and vigorous inflection--"I want
to go back. I want to stay. As a matter of fact I'm just getting
interested in Crowheart."

She looked at him questioningly and then explained--

"It couldn't be, of course; I was only wishing, but you don't understand
quite--about things."

He spoke promptly--

"I think I do--far better than you believe--and I've about made up my
mind to take a hand myself. I cannot well be less chivalrous, less loyal
than you."

She looked puzzled, but he did not explain that he had overheard her
valiant defence of himself to old Edouard Dubois.

"You're not vindictive, are you?"

She shook her head.

"I think not, but I am what is just as bad, perhaps--terribly
unforgiving."

"Even your belove