Not only for one hour, not alone for just two or three hours did they push on. But for half of that silent, starry night. A score of times Babe Deveril said to her: "We've done our stunt; if any girl on earth ever earned rest, you've done it." But always there was that driving force and that allure, and another ridge just ahead, and her answer: "Another mile.... I can do it." Deveril, with a lighted match cupped in his hand, looked at his watch. "It's long after midnight; nearly one o'clock." They found a sheltered spot among the tall pines; above them the keen edge of an up-thrust ridge; just below a thick-grown clump of underbrush; underfoot dry needles, fallen and drifted from the pines. Again he was all courtesy and kindliness toward her, seeing her hard pressed, judging her, despite her mask of hardihood, near collapse. So he cut pine boughs with his knife and broke them with his hands, and of them piled her a couch. She thanked him gently; impulsively she gave him her hand ... though, as his caught it eagerly, she jerked it away quickly.... He watched her lie down, snuggling her cheek against the curve of her arm. Near by he lay down on his back, his two hands under his head, his eyes on the stars. A curious smile twitched at his lips. And then, just as they were dropping off to sleep, they heard far off a long-drawn, howling cry piercing through the great hush. Lynette started up, her blood quickening; as she had heard Bruce Standing's warning call that first time, so now did she think to hear it again. Deveril leaped to his feet, no less startled. A moment later he called softly to her, and it seemed to Lynette that he forced a tone of lightness which did not ring true: "A timber wolf ... but one that runs on four legs! It won't come near." Then, as she made no answer and he could not see her face, he asked sharply: "What did you think it was?" She shivered and lay back. "I didn't know." And to herself she whispered: "And I don't know now!" Here among the uplands it was a night of piercing cold. The nearer the dawn drew on, the icier grew the fingers of the wind which swept the ridges and probed into the cañons. For a little while both Lynette and Deveril slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion. But, after the first couple of hours, neither slept beyond brief, uncomfortable dozes. They shivered and woke and stirred; they found a growing torture in the rude couches they slept upon, in the hard ground and stones, which seemed always thrusting up in new places. Long before the night had begun to thin to the first of daybreak's hint, Lynette was sitting, her back to a tree, torn between the two impossibilities, that of remaining awake, that of remaining asleep. Deveril got up and began stamping about, trying to get warm and drive the cramp and soreness out of his muscles.