"Who loves Pierre--a woman that's fit for him. She can ride like a man; she can shoot almost as straight and as fast as Pierre; she can handle a knife; and she's been through hell for Pierre, and she'll go through it again. She can ride the trail all day with him and finish it less fagged than he is. She can chop down a tree as well as he can, and build a fire better. She can hold up a train with him or rob a bank and slip through a town in the middle of the night and laugh with him about it afterward around a campfire. I ask you, is that the sort of a woman that's meant for Pierre?" And Mary answered, with bowed head: "She is." She cried instantly afterward, cutting short the look of wild triumph on the face of the boy: "But there's no such woman; there's no one who could do these things! I know it!" The boy sprang to his feet, flushing as red as the girl was white. "You fool, if you're blind and got to have your eyes open to see, look at the woman!" And she tore the wide-brimmed sombrero from her head. Down past the shoulders flooded a mass of blue-black hair. The firelight flickered and danced across the silken shimmer of it. It swept wildly past the waist, a glorious, night-dark tide in which the heart of a strong man could be tangled and lost. With quivering lips Jacqueline cried: "Look at me! Am I worthy of him?" Short step by step Mary went back, staring with fascinated eyes as one who sees some devilish, midnight revelry, and shrinks away from it lest the sight should blast her. She covered her eyes with her hands but instantly strong grips fell on her wrists and her hands were jerked down from her face. She looked up into the eyes of a beautiful tigress. "Answer me--your yellow hair against mine--your child fingers against my grip--are you equal with me?" But the strength of Jacqueline faded and grew small; her arms fell to her side; she stepped back, with a rising pallor taking the place of the red. For Mary, brushing her hands, one gloved and one bare, before her eyes, returned the stare of the mountain girl with equal scorn. A mighty loathing filled up her veins in place of strength. "Tell me," she said, "was--was this man living with you when he came to me and--and made speeches--about love?" "Bah! He was living with me. I tell you, he came back and laughed with me about it, and told me about your baby-blue eyes when they filled with tears; laughed and laughed and laughed, I tell you, as I could laugh now." The other twisted her hands together, moaning: "And I have followed him, even to the place where he keeps his--woman? Ah, how I hate myself: how I despise myself. I'm unclean--unclean in my own eyes!" "Wait!" called Jacqueline. "You are leaving too soon. The night is cold." "I am going. There is no need to gibe at me."