He shuddered, and looked back. The little brown horse and the little brown
girl were one with the little brown station so far away, and presently the
saloon and men were blotted out in one blur of green and brown and yellow.

He looked to the ground in his despair. He _must_ go back. He could not
leave her in such peril. She was his to care for by all the rights of
manhood and womanhood. She had been put in his way. It was his duty.

But the ground whirled by under his madness, and showed him plainly that
to jump off would be instant death. Then the thought of his mother came
again, and the girl's words, "I am nothing to you, you know."

The train whirled its way between two mountains and the valley, and the
green and brown and yellow blur were gone from sight. He felt as if he had
just seen the coffin close over the girl's sweet face, and he had done it.

By and by he crawled into the car, pulled his slouch hat down over his
eyes, and settled down in a seat; but all the time he was trying to see
over again that old saloon and those four men, and to make out their
passing identity. Sometimes the agony of thinking it all over, and trying
to make out whether those men had been the pursuers, made him feel
frantic; and it seemed as if he must pull the bell-cord, and make the
train stop, and get off to walk back. Then the utter hopelessness of ever
finding her would come over him, and he would settle back in his seat
again and try to sleep. But the least drowsiness would bring a vision of
the girl galloping alone over the prairie with the four men in full
pursuit behind. "Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!" the car-wheels seemed
to say.