lain before. He turned away, took up his pack and
gun, set his back square upon her, and trudged off toward the only
shelter that was theirs. Along the ridge, buffeted by the wind, half
blind with the flurries of stinging hail with which that wind lashed him
as with countless bits of broken glass, he did not turn to look behind
him; not until he had gone fully half of the way to the cave. Then he
did turn. He could not see her following as he had pictured her. He
dropped his burden and went back to her. She lay as he had left her, her
face whiter than he had ever seen it, her eyes shut, certain small blue
veins making a delicate tracery across the lids.

He had meant to storm at her, to stir her into activity by the lashings
of his rage. But instead he stooped and gathered her up into his arms
and carried her through the storm, shielding her body all that he could.
And as he stooped and as he moved off he was growling deep down in his
throat like a disgruntled old bear. When it came to clambering down and
then up the cliffs Gloria obeyed his commands listlessly and as in a
dream, lending the certain small aid that was necessary. Even so, the
climb was hard and slow, and more than ever before filled with danger.
But in the end it was done; again they were in Gus Ingle's cave. King
built a fire, left Gloria lying by it, and went back for his pack. When
he returned she had not moved. He made a bed for her, placed her on it
so that her feet were toward the fire, and covered her with his own
blanket. Then he boiled some coffee and made her drink it. She obeyed
again, neither thanked him nor upbraided him, and drooped back upon her
hard bed and shut her eyes. Here was a new Gloria, a Gloria who did not
care whether she lived or died. With a quickening alarm in his eyes he
stood by the smoky fire, staring at her. Uninured to hardship, her
delicate body was already beaten; with still further hardship to come
might she not--die? And what would Mark King say to Ben Gaynor, even if
he brought back much raw red gold, if it had cost the life of Ben
Gaynor's daughter?

She did not stir when he came to her and knelt and put his hand against
her cheek. He was shocked to learn how cold she was. Lightly he set his
fingers against her softly pulsing throat; it was cold, like ice.
Plainly she was chilled through. As he began unlacing her boots a
curiously bitter thought came to him. She was his; the marriage service
had given her to him w