"The clothes," repeated Pierre sternly, "on the jump, McGuire." And with a jump McGuire obeyed. His hands trembled so that he could hardly remove the scarf from the shoulders of the model, but afterward fear made his fingers supple, as he did up the clothes in two bundles. Jacqueline took one of them and Pierre the other under his left arm; with his right hand he drew out some yellow coins. "I didn't buy these clothes because I didn't have the time to dicker with you, McGuire. I've heard you talk prices before, you know. But here's what the clothes are worth to us." And into the quaking hands of McGuire he poured a chinking stream of gold pieces. Relief, amazement, and a very wholesome fear struggled in the face of McGuire as he saw himself threefold overpaid. At that little yellow heap he remained staring, unheeding the sound of the retreating outlaws. "It ain't possible," he said at last, "thieves have begun to pay." His eyes sought the ceiling. "So that's Red Pierre?" said McGuire. As for Pierre and Jacqueline, they were instantly safe in the black heart of the mountains. Many a mile of hard riding lay before them, however, and there was no road, not even a trail that they could follow. They had never even seen the Crittenden schoolhouse; they knew its location only by vague descriptions. But they had ridden a thousand times in places far more bewildering and less known to them. Like all true denizens of the mountain-desert, they had a sense of direction as uncanny as that of an Eskimo. Now they struck off confidently through the dark and trailed up and down through the mountains until they reached a hollow in the center of which shone a group of dim lights. It was the schoolhouse near the Barnes place, the scene of the dance. So they turned back behind the hills and in the covert of a group of cottonwoods they kindled two more little fires, shading them on three sides with rocks and leaving them open for the sake of light on the fourth. They worked busily for a time, without a word spoken by either of them. The only sound was the rustling of Jacqueline's stolen silks and the purling of a small stream of water near them, some meager spring. But presently: "P-P-Pierre, I'm f-freezing." He himself was numbed by the chill air and paused in the task of thrusting a leg into the trousers, which persisted in tangling and twisting under his foot. "So'm I. It's c-c-cold as the d-d-d-devil." "And these--th-things--aren't any thicker than spider webs." "Wait. I'll build you a great big fire." And he scooped up a number of dead twigs. There was an interlude of more silk rustling, then: "P-P-Pierre." "Well?" "I wish I had a m-m-m-mirror." "Jack, are you vain?"