She had followed Jim's trail for miles out toward the range. And now
she dismounted to see if his tracks were as fresh as she had
believed. He had left the little village camp about sunrise. Someone
had seen him riding away and had told Joan. Then he had tarried on
the way, for it was now midday. Joan pondered. She had become used
to his idle threats and disgusted with his vacillations. That had
been the trouble--Jim was amiable, lovable, but since meeting Joan
he had not exhibited any strength of character. Joan stood beside
her horse and looked away toward the dark mountains. She was daring,
resourceful, used to horses and trails and taking care of herself;
and she did not need anyone to tell her that she had gone far
enough. It had been her hope to come up with Jim. Always he had been
repentant. But this time was different. She recalled his lean, pale
face--so pale that freckles she did not know he had showed through--
and his eyes, usually so soft and mild, had glinted like steel. Yes,
it had been a bitter, reckless face. What had she said to him? She
tried to recall it.

The night before at twilight Joan had waited for him. She had given
him precedence over the few other young men of the village, a fact
she resentfully believed he did not appreciate. Jim was
unsatisfactory in every way except in the way he cared for her. And
that also--for he cared too much.

When Joan thought how Jim loved her, all the details of that night
became vivid. She sat alone under the spruce-trees near the cabin.
The shadows thickened, and then lightened under a rising moon. She
heard the low hum of insects, a distant laugh of some woman of the
village, and the murmur of the brook. Jim was later than usual. Very