life and death pressed closely, and even in the midst of her
great fears it brought her comfort. She was to think often of it
later, and always the memory was to be music in her heart. Even
when she denied her love for him, assured herself it was
impossible she could care for so shameful a villain, even then it
was a sweet torture to allow herself the luxury of recalling his
broken delirious phrases. At the very worst he could not be as
bad as they said; some instinct told her this was impossible. His
fearless devil-may-care smile, his jaunty, gallant bearing, these
pleaded against the evidence for him. And yet was it conceivable
that a man of spirit, a gentleman by training at least, would let
himself lie under the odium of such a charge if he were not
guilty? Her tangled thoughts fought this profitless conflict for
days. Nor could she dismiss it from her mind. Even after he began
to mend she was still on the rack. For in some snatch of good
talk, when the fine quality of the man seemed to glow in his
face, poignant remembrance would stab her with recollection of
the difference between what he was and what he seemed to be.

One of the things that had been a continual surprise to Helen was
the short time required by these deep-cheated and clean-blooded
Westerners to recover from apparently serious wounds. It was
scarce more than two weeks since Bannister had filled the
bunkhouse with wounded men, and already two of them were back at
work and the third almost fit for service. For perhaps three days
the sheepman's life hung in the balance, after which his splendid
constitution and his outdoor life began to tell. The thermometer
showed that the fever had slipped down a notch, and he was now
sleeping wholesomely a good part of his time. Altogether, unless
for some unseen contingency, the doctor prophesied that the