"Listen," she said softly, "I heard no whistle. There is no one waiting for me. A moment ago it seemed easy to lie to you, to make you believe things that were not absolutely true, but I can't do it now, nor again--_ever_. You think I am heartless, a creature of stone--indifferent. It isn't so. My heart has held a little place for aching all these years. Think of me as half-witted,--idiotic,--but not _that_. Listen to me. You have such a heart--such _tenderness_--you are good and kind. You will understand me--or try to, and not be offended. I want to go home by myself. I _must_ go back _alone_. There is a reason which I will tell you--sometime. I ask as a favor--as a friend to a friend, that you will stay behind." "But are you not afraid?" She interrupted him. "Afraid? Not I! Why, I was born here, and am a part of it, and it of me! Ask your men there, they know. I want to ride like the wind--alone--ahead of the storm, to get there soon. I am tired." Her low, quick speech bewildered him. Her words were too inconsistent, too hurried, to convey any real meaning. "Will you ride with one of my men?" he asked. "Oh, why _can't_ you let me do as I wish!" she cried impatiently. "I want to go alone." "It seems quite evident that you do not want _my_ company, but one of the men must go and take a lantern. It's too dark to see the road." His tone was decisive. She leaned toward him again. This time her words fell harshly. "You are a man of your word?" "I hope so; but that is not the issue just now." "Then promise you will not go with me to-night." "No need of that. I have decided to send one of my men--and I think," he added briefly, "that there is no necessity of prolonging this conversation. Good-evening." "Then you will not come!" she exclaimed, relieved. "And never mind telling your man, for I shall ride like the wind, and will be halfway home before he can get on his horse." She turned like a flash. The quick beats of her horse's hoofs echoed back until the sound was lost in the distance. Livingston stood silent, listening, until he could no longer hear the dull notes on the dry earth--his thoughts perturbed as the night. CHAPTER VIII Captain Bill Henry, foreman of the Bar O outfit, and head by choice of the season's round up, had just ridden into camp. Most of the men were in the cook-tent when he turned his dripping bay horse in with the others. Then he picked up his saddle, bridle, and blanket and carried them up to the cook-tent, where he threw them down, hitting one of the stake-ropes with such violence as to cause the whole tent to quiver, and one of the boys inside to mutter under his breath: "Lord, the Cap's on the prod! What in the devil's he got in his gizzard now?"