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You could give it up, and go back to your work among men, where it would count," she said. "There are things here that count. I couldn't put a state on the map--an industrial and progressive one, I mean--back home in Washington, or sitting with my feet on the desk in some sleepy consulate. And I'm going to put this state on the map where it belongs. That's the job that's cut out for me here, Miss Landcraft." He said it without boast, but with such a stubborn note of determination that she felt something lift within her, raising her to the plane of his aspirations. She knew that Alan Macdonald was right about it, although the thing that he would do was still dim in her perception. "Even then, I don't see what a ranch away off up here from anywhere ever will be worth to you, especially when the post is abandoned. You know the department is going to give it up?" "And then you--" he began in consternation, checking himself to add, slowly, "no, I didn't know that." "Perhaps in a year." "It can't make much difference in the value of land up this valley, though," he mused. "When the railroad comes on through--and that will be as soon as we break the strangle hold of Chadron and men like him--this country will develop overnight. There's petroleum under the land up where I am, lying shallow, too. That will be worth something then." The music of an old-style dance was being played. Now the piping cowboy voice of some range cavalier rose, calling the figures. The two in the garden path turned with one accord and faced away from the bright windows again. "They'll be unmasking at midnight?" he asked. "Yes." "I'm afraid I can't go in again, then. The hour of my enchantment is nearly at its end." "You shouldn't have come," she chided, yet not in severity, rather in subdued admiration for his reckless bravery. "Suppose they--" "Mac! O Mac!" called a cautious, low voice from a hydrangea bush close at hand. "Who's there?" demanded Macdonald, springing forward. "They're onto you, Mac," answered the voice from the shrub, "they're goin' to do you hurt. They're lookin' for you now!" There was a little rustling in the leaves as the unseen friend moved away. The voice was the voice of Banjo Gibson, but not even the shadow of the messenger had been seen. "You should have gone before--hurry!" she whispered in alarm. "Never mind. It was a risk, and I took it, and I'd take it again tomorrow. It gave me these
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