be caught by the tint of
any chance flower in its path, the incident of last night was much. To
Talbot, self-concentrated, determined, and absorbed, it was nothing. He
looked at his friend now with something like contempt.

"She's so handsome, and dances so well," Stephen went on hurriedly,
feeling foolish and uncomfortable before the other's gaze.

"I did not come here to dance with girls," remarked Talbot shortly,
going over to the stove, and the entry of the other men at that moment
stopped the conversation.

They had breakfast together at the rough wood table in the centre of the
room. The coffee was the redeeming feature of the meal: from that bright
brown stream of boiling liquid the men seemed to gain new life; they
watched it lovingly, expectantly, eagerly, as Bill poured it out into
their thick cups.

The moment the meal was over Talbot crushed his hat on to his eyes, but
before he left the cabin he glanced at Stephen, who was standing
irresolutely by the stove.

"I shall get all I want," he said, "and be back here by two at the
latest. If you're here then, we can start up together; if not, I shall
go ahead;" and he went out.

Stephen lingered by the stove, then he and Bill drifted into a
discussion over some of the latest discoveries of gold in Colorado, and
they both fell to wondering how much more had been found since their
last news, seven months old; and they had a pipe together, and then Bill
thought he'd drop down to the "Pistol Shot," and Stephen crushed on his
fur cap as determinedly as Talbot had done and went out--to Katrine's
number in Good Luck Row.

CHAPTER II

AT THE WEST GULCH

Talbot made his start back to the cabin later than he intended; he had
knocked at Winters' cabin before leaving the town, but all the occupants
were out, and there had been no response.

It was afternoon, and already the uncompromising cold of evening had
entered into the air; the sky was grey everywhere, and dark, almost
black, in front of him; it seemed to hang low, frowning and ominous,
over the desolate snowy waste that stretched before him: there was no
snow falling yet, only the threat of it written in the black and dreary
sky that faced him. His cheeks and chin felt stiff and frozen already,
as if a thin mask of ice were drawn over them, and his eyes were sore
and tired from the continuous glare of the snow. The little pony beside
him plodded along the path patiently, and his master at interva