seemed the furthest thing from her. She wondered that she dared to
think of it. The night had grown chilly; the wind was sweeping with
low roar through the balsams; the fire burned dull and red. Joan
watched the black, shapeless hulk that she knew to be Gulden. For a
long time he remained motionless. By and by he moved, approached the
fire, stood one moment in the dying ruddy glow, his great breadth
and bulk magnified, with all about him vague and shadowy, but the
more sinister for that. The cavernous eyes were only black spaces in
that vast face, yet Joan saw them upon her. He lay down then among
the other men and soon his deep and heavy breathing denoted the
tranquil slumber of an ox.

For hours through changing shadows and starlight Joan lay awake,
while a thousand thoughts besieged her, all centering round that
vital and compelling one of Jim Cleve.

Only upon awakening, with the sun in her face, did Joan realize that
she had actually slept.

The camp was bustling with activity. The horses were in, fresh and
quarrelsome, with ears laid back. Kells was sitting upon a rock near
the fire with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was looking better.
When he greeted Joan his voice sounded stronger. She walked by
Pearce and Frenchy and Gulden on her way to the brook, but they took
no notice of her. Bate Wood, however, touched his sombrero and said:
"Mornin', miss." Joan wondered if her memory of the preceding night
were only a bad dream. There was a different atmosphere by daylight,
and it was dominated by Kells. Presently she returned to camp
refreshed and hungry. Gulden was throwing a pack, which action he
performed with ease and dexterity. Pearce was cinching her saddle.