e off, then!" And he flung himself with a
sudden wild, boyish "Whoopee!" on his pony, gave a clip to Joan's
horse and his own, and away they galloped, a pair of young, wild
things, out from the town through a straggling street to where the
road boldly stretched itself toward a great land of sagebrush, of
buttes humping their backs against the brilliant sky. Down the valley
they rode, trotting, walking, galloping, till, turning westward, they
mounted a sharp slope and came up above the plain. Below, in the heart
of the long, narrow valley, the river coiled and wandered, divided and
came together again into a swift stream, amongst aspen islands and
willow swamps. Beyond this strange, lonely river-bed, the cottonwoods
began, and, above them, the pine forests massed themselves and strode
up the foothills of the gigantic range, that range of iron rocks,
sharp, thin, and brittle where they scraped the sky.

At the top of the hill, Pierre put out his hand and pulled Joan's
rein, drawing her to a stop beside him.

"Over yonder's my ranch," said he.

Joan looked. There was not a sign of house or clearing, but she
followed his gesture and nodded.

"Under the mountains?" she said.

"At the foot of Thunder Canyon. You can see a gap in the pines.
There's a waterfall just above--that white streak. Now you've got it.
Where you come from 's to the south, away yonder."

Joan would not turn her head. "Yes," said she, "I know."

Suddenly tears rushed to her eyes. She had a moment of unbearable
longing and regret. Pierre said nothing; he was not watching her.

"Come on," said he, "or your father will be takin' after us."

They rode at a gallop down the hill.

CHAPTER III

TWO PICTURES IN THE FIRE

The period which followed had a quality of breathless, almost
unearthly happiness. They were young, savage, simple, and their love,
unanalyzed, was as joyous as the loves of animals: joyous with that
clear gravity characteristic of the boy and girl. Pierre had been
terribly alone before Joan came, and the building-up of his ranch had
occupied his mind day and night except, now and again, for dreams. Yet
he was of a passionate nature. Joan felt in him sometimes a savage
possibility of violence. Two incidents of this time blazed themselves
especially on her memory: the one, her father's visit, the other, an
irrelevant enough picture until after events threw back a glare upon
it.

They had been at Pierre's ranch for a fortni