Louise was not of that sort. The roughness and the loneliness would simply wear her away and she would die—smiling to the last. What leering fate had led her hither to show him what he had missed by choosing as he had chosen to throw himself into the thankless task of preparing a new country for—a future generation? This accomplished, she would flit lightly away and never know the misery she had left behind or the flavor and zest she had filched from the work of one man, at least, who had entered upon it with lofty ambition, high hopes, and immutable purpose. What then would he have wished? That she had not come at all? He smiled. If Louise could have seen that smile, or the almost dewy softness which stole into his eyes—the eyes that were too keen for everyday living! That he loved her was the one thing in life worth while. Then why rail at fate? If he had not chosen as he had, he should never have known Louise. He must have gone through life without that dear, exquisite, solemn sense of her—in his arms—those arms to which it had been given to draw her back from a cruel death. That fulfilment was his for all time. How sweet she was! He seemed to feel again the soft pressure of her clinging arms,—remembering how his lips had brushed her fair hair. If it had been Langford, now, who was guilty of so ridiculous a sentimentalism—the bold, impetuous, young ranchman—he smiled at himself whimsically. Then he pulled himself together. He did not think the jury could believe the story Jesse Black would trump up, no matter how plausible it was made to sound. He felt more like himself,—in better condition to meet those few but staunch friends of his from whom he had so summarily run away,—stronger to meet—Louise. Man-like, now that he was himself again, he must know the time. He struck a match. “Why, Lena, old girl, we’ve been taking our time, haven’t we? They are likely through supper, but maybe I can wheedle a doughnut out of the cook.” The match burned out. Not until he had tossed it away did it come to him that they were no longer on the main trail. “Now, that’s funny, old girl,” he scolded. “What made you be so unreasonable? Well, we started with our noses westward, so you must have wandered into the old Lazy S branch trail. Though, to be sure, it has been such a deuce of a while since we travelled it that I wonder at you, Lena. Well, we’ll just jog back. What’s the matter now, silly?” His mare had shied. He turned her nose resolutely, domineeringly, back toward the spot objected to. “I can’t see what you’re scared at, but we’ll just investigate and show you how foolish a thing is feminine squeamishness.” A shadowy form arose out of the darkness. It approached. “Is that you, Dick?”