dirt, known as "The
Square," and to the ugly frame buildings straggled about it; but it
could and did give an unearthly look of blessedness to the bare,
gray-brown buttes that ringed the town and a glory to the sky, while
upon Pierre, waiting at his pony's head, it shed a magical and tender
light. He was dressed in his cowboy's best, a white silk handkerchief
knotted under his chin, leather "chaps," bright spurs, a sombrero on
his head. His face was grave, excited, wistful. At sight of Joan, he
moved forward, the pony trailing after him at the full length of its
reins; and, stopping before her, Pierre took off the sombrero, slowly
stripped the gauntlet from his right hand, and, pressing both hat and
glove against his hip with the left hand, held out the free, clean
palm to Joan.

"Good-bye," said he, "unless--you'll be comin' with me after all?"

Joan felt again that rush of fire to her brows. She took his hand and
her fingers closed around it like the frightened, lonely fingers of a
little girl. She came near to him and looked up.

"I'll be comin' with you, Pierre," she said, just above her breath.

He shot up a full inch, stiffened, searched her with smouldering eyes,
then held her hard against him. "You'll not be sorry, Joan Carver,"
said he gently and put her away from him. Then, unsmiling, he bade her
go in and get her belongings while he got her a horse and told his
news to Mrs. Upper.

That ride was dreamlike to Joan. Pierre put her in her saddle and she
rode after him across the Square and along a road flanked by the ugly
houses of the town.

"Where are we a-goin'?" she asked him timidly.

He stopped at that, turned, and, resting his hand on the cantle of his
saddle, smiled at her for the first time.

"Don't you savvy the answer to that question, Joan?"

She shook her head.

The smile faded. "We're goin' to be married," said he sternly, and
they rode on.

They were married by the justice, a pleasant, silent fellow, who with
Western courtesy, asked no more questions than were absolutely
needful, and in fifteen minutes Joan mounted her horse again, a ring
on the third finger of her left hand.

"Now," said Pierre, standing at her stirrup, his shining, smoke-blue
eyes lifted to her, his hand on her boot, "you'll be wantin' some
things--some clothes?"

"No," said Joan. "Maud went with me an' helped me buy things with my
pay just yesterday. I won't be needin' anything."

"All right," said he. "We'r