had known hitherto. Dreaming silence of autumn held the wildness and
loneliness of the Wyoming hills. The sage shone gray and purple, the
ridges yellow and gold; the valleys were green and amber and red. No
dust, no heat, no wind--a clear, blue, cloudless sky, sweet odors in the
still air--it was a beautiful time.

Days passed and nights passed, as if on wings. Every waking hour drew
him closer to this incomparable girl who had arisen upon his horizon
like a star. He knew the hour was imminent when he must read his heart.
He fought it off; he played with his bliss. Allie was now his shadow
instead of the faithful Larry, although the cowboy was often with them,
adapting himself to the changed conditions, too big and splendid to
be envious or jealous. They fished down the brook, and always at the
never-to-be-forgotten ford he would cross first and turn to see her
follow. She could never understand why Neale would delight in carrying
her across at other points, yet made her ford this one by herself.

"It's such a bother to take off moccasins and leggings," she would say.

They rode horseback up and down the trails that Slingerland assured them
were safe. And it was the cowboy Larry who lent his horse and taught her
a flying mount; he said she would make a rider.

In the afternoons they would climb the high ridge, and on the summit
sit in the long whitening grass and gaze out over the dim and purple
vastness of the plains. In the twilight they walked under the pines.
When night set in and the air grew cold they would watch the ruddy fire
on the hearth and see pictures of the future there, and feel a warmth on
hand and cheek that was not all from the cheerful blaze.

Neale found it strange to realize how his attachment for Larry had
changed to love. All Neale's spiritual being was undergoing a great and
vital change, but this was not the reason he loved Larry. It was because
of Allie. The cowboy was a Texan and he had inherited the Southerner's
fine and chivalric regard for women. Neale never knew whether Larry had
ever had a sister or a sweetheart or a girl friend. But at sight Larry
had become Allie's own; not a brother or a friend or a lover, but
something bigger and higher. The man expanded under her smiles, her
teasing, her playfulness, her affection. Neale had no pang in divining
the love Larry bore Allie. Drifter, cowboy, gun-thrower, man-killer,
whatever he had been, the light of this girl's beautiful eyes, her