him, he had reached the point where he swung his head around first and
then grudgingly followed the movement with his body. The girl was tired,
also, in spite of the fact that she had covered every inch of the
distance in the saddle. There was that violet shade of weariness under
her eyes and her shoulders slumped forward. Only Donnegan, the hater of
labor, was fresh.

They had started in the first dusk of the coming day; it was now the
yellow time of the slant afternoon sunlight; between these two points
there had been a body of steady plodding. The girl had looked askance at
that gaunt form of Donnegan's when they began; but before three hours,
seeing that the spring never left his step nor the swinging rhythm his
stride, she began to wonder. This afternoon, nothing he did could have
surprised her. From the moment he entered the house the night before he
had been a mystery. Till her death day she would not forget the fire
with which he had stared up at her from the foot of the stairs. But when
he came out of her father's room--not cowed and whipped as most men left
it--he had looked at her with a veiled glance, and since that moment
there had always been a mist of indifference over his eyes when he
looked at her.

In the beginning of that day's march all she knew was that her father
trusted her to this stranger, Donnegan, to take her to The Corner, where
he was to find Jack Landis and bring Jack back to his old allegiance and
find what he was doing with his time and his money. It was a quite
natural proceeding, for Jack was a wild sort, and he was probably
gambling away all the gold that was dug in his mines. It was perfectly
natural throughout, except that she should have been trusted so entirely
to a stranger. That was a remarkable thing, but, then, her father was a
remarkable man, and it was not the first time that his actions had been