“Well, I have not been able to raise it. There has been this and that and the other,--yu’ know most of the later doings yourself,--and to-day is the first time I’ve happened to see the man since the doings last autumn. Yu’ seem to know about them, too. He knows I can’t prove he was with that gang of horse thieves. And I can’t prove he killed poor Shorty. But he knows I missed him awful close, and spoiled his thieving for a while. So d’ yu’ wonder he don’t think much of me? But if I had lived to be twenty-nine years old like I am, and with all my chances made no enemy, I’d feel myself a failure.” His story was finished. He had made her his confidant in matters he had never spoken of before, and she was happy to be thus much nearer to him. It diminished a certain fear that was mingled with her love of him. During the next several miles he was silent, and his silence was enough for her. Vermont sank away from her thoughts, and Wyoming held less of loneliness. They descended altogether into the map which had stretched below them, so that it was a map no longer, but earth with growing things, and prairie-dogs sitting upon it, and now and then a bird flying over it. And after a while she said to him, “What are you thinking about?” “I have been doing sums. Figured in hours it sounds right short. Figured in minutes it boils up into quite a mess. Twenty by sixty is twelve hundred. Put that into seconds, and yu’ get seventy-two thousand seconds. Seventy-two thousand. Seventy-two thousand seconds yet before we get married.” “Seconds! To think of its having come to seconds!” “I am thinkin’ about it. I’m choppin’ sixty of ’em off every minute.” With such chopping time wears away. More miles of the road lay behind them, and in the virgin wilderness the scars of new-scraped water ditches began to appear, and the first wire fences. Next, they were passing cabins and occasional fields, the outposts of habitation. The free road became wholly imprisoned, running between unbroken stretches of barbed wire. Far off to the eastward a flowing column of dust marked the approaching stage, bringing the bishop, probably, for whose visit here they had timed their wedding. The day still brimmed with heat and sunshine; but the great daily shadow was beginning to move from the feet of the Bow Leg Mountains outward toward the town. Presently they began to meet citizens. Some of these knew them and nodded, while some did not, and stared. Turning a corner into the town’s chief street, where stood the hotel, the bank, the drug store, the general store, and the seven saloons, they were hailed heartily. Here were three friends,--Honey Wiggin, Scipio Le Moyne, and Lin McLean,--all desirous of drinking the Virginian’s health, if his lady--would she mind? The three stood grinning, with their hats off; but behind their gayety the Virginian read some other purpose. “We’ll all be very good,” said Honey Wiggin. “Pretty good,” said Lin. “Good,” said Scipio.