orse and rode back up the trail. The glances of these
ruffians seemed to scorch her with the reality of her appearance. She
wore a disguise, but her womanhood was more manifest in it than in her
feminine garb. It attracted the bold glances of these men. If there were
any possible decency among them, this outrageous bandit costume rendered
it null. How could she ever continue to wear it? Would not something
good and sacred within her be sullied by a constant exposure to the
effect she had upon these vile border men? She did not think it could
while she loved Jim Cleve; and with thought of him came a mighty throb
of her heart to assure her that nothing mattered if only she could save
him.

Upon the return trip up the gulch Joan found men in sight leading
horses, chopping wood, stretching arms in cabin doors. Joan avoided
riding near them, yet even at a distance she was aware of their gaze.
One rowdy, half hidden by a window, curved hands round his mouth and
called, softly, "Hullo, sweetheart!"

Joan was ashamed that she could feel insulted. She was amazed at the
temper which seemed roused in her. This border had caused her feelings
she had never dreamed possible to her. Avoiding the trail, she headed
for the other side of the gulch. There were clumps of willows along
the brook through which she threaded a way, looking for a good place to
cross. The horse snorted for water. Apparently she was not going to find
any better crossing, so she turned the horse into a narrow lane through
the willows and, dismounting on a mossy bank, she slipped the bridle so
the horse could drink.

Suddenly she became aware that she was not alone. But she saw no one
in front of her or on the other side of her horse. Then she turned. Jim
Cleve was in the act of rising from his knees. He had a towel in his
hand. His face was wet. He stood no more than ten steps from her.

Joan could not have repressed a little cry to save her life. The
surprise was tremendous. She could not move a finger. She expected to
hear him call her name.

Cleve stared at her. His face, in the morning light, was as drawn and
white as that of a corpse. Only his eyes seemed alive and they were
flames. A lightning flash of scorn leaped to them. He only recognized
in her a woman, and his scorn was for the creature that bandit garb
proclaimed her to be. A sad and bitter smile crossed his face; and then
it was followed by an expression that was a lash upon Joan's bleeding
spi