t the grave in the little box canyon had not disappointed
her. She had recognized the ring and the watch; from them she had shrank in
horror, as if fearing that the golden serpent might suddenly leap into life
and strike.

In spite of the mightiest efforts she might have made for self-control
Aldous had seen in her tense and tortured face a look that was more than
either dread or shock--it was abhorrence, hatred. And his last glimpse of
her face had revealed those things gone, and in their place the strange joy
she had run into the tent to hide. That she should rejoice over the dead,
or that the grim relics from the grave should bring that new dawn into her
face and eyes, did not strike him as shocking. In Joanne his sun had
already begun to rise and set. He had come to understand that for her the
grave must hold its dead; that the fact of death, death under the slab that
bore Mortimer FitzHugh's name, meant life for her, just as it meant life
and all things for him. He had prayed for it, even while he dreaded that it
might not be. In him all things were now submerged in the wild thought that
Joanne was free, and the grave had been the key to her freedom.

A calmness began to possess him that was in singular contrast to the
perturbed condition of his mind a few minutes before. From this hour Joanne
was his to fight for, to win if he could; and, knowing this, his soul rose
in triumph above his first physical exultation, and he fought back the
almost irresistible impulse to follow her into the tent and tell her what
this day had meant for him. Following this came swiftly a realization of
what it had meant for her--the suspense, the terrific strain, the final
shock and gruesome horror of it. He was sure, without seeing, that she was
huddled down on the blankets in the tent. She had passed through an ordeal
under which a strong man might have broken, and the picture he had of her
struggle in there alone turned him from the tent filled with a
determination to make her believe that the events of the morning, both with
him and MacDonald, were easily forgotten.

He began to whistle as he threw back the wet canvas from over the camp
outfit that had been taken from Pinto's back. In one of the two cow-hide
panniers he saw that thoughtful old Donald had packed materials for their
dinner, as well as utensils necessary for its preparation. That dinner they
would have in the valley, well beyond the red mountain. He began to repack,
w