"But where--where to?" "I don't know. In the mountains somewhere. There's a trail here he knows. It branches off to the north and goes up to the places where they get the skins." "I don't believe you." "It's true. The horses are waiting outside." "Lucy, you've gone crazy. Don't--don't"-- She clung to the hand she held, grasped upward at the arm. Both were cold and resistant. Her pleading struck back from the hardness of the mind made up, the irrevocable resolution. "But he's not your husband." Even at this moment, keyed to an act of lawlessness that in the sheltered past would have been as impossible as murder, the great tradition held fast. Lucy's answer came with a sudden flare of shocked repudiation: "He will be. There are priests and missionaries up there among the Indians. The first one we meet will marry us. It's all right. He loves me and he's promised." Nothing of her wild courage came to the other girl, no echo of the call of life and passion. It was a dark and dreadful fate, and Susan strained her closer as if to hold her back from it. "It's been fixed for two days. We had to wait till we got here and crossed the trail. We're going right into the mountains and it's summer, and there's plenty of game." "The Indians?" "We'll be in the Crow's country, and Zavier's mother was a Crow." The words proved the completeness of her estrangement--the acceptance of the alien race as no longer alien. "Oh, Lucy, don't, don't. Wait till we get to Fort Bridger and marry him there. Make him come to California with us. Don't do such an awful thing--run away into the mountains with a half-breed." "I don't care what he is. There's no one else for me but him. He's my man and I'll go with him wherever he wants to take me." "Wait and tell Bella." "She wouldn't let me go. There'd be nothing but fighting and misery. When you've made up your mind to do a thing you've got to do it yourself, not go by what other people think." There was a silence and they hung upon each other. Then Lucy put her face against her friend's and kissed her. "Good-by," she whispered, loosening her arms. "I can't let you go. I won't. It'll kill you." "I must. He's waiting." She struggled from the embrace, pulling away the clasping hands noiselessly, but with purpose. There was something of coldness, of the semblance but not the soul of affection, in the determined softness with which she sought release. She stole to the tent flap and peered out. Her thoughts were already outside, flown to the shape hiding in the shadow like birds darting from a cage. She did not turn at Susan's strangled whisper. "We'll never see you again, Bella, nor I, nor the children." "Perhaps, some day, in California. He's there. I must go." "Lucy!" She leaped after her. In the tent opening they once more clasped each other. "I can't let you go," Susan moaned.