ter I've ruined myself for love of you?"

She laughed tauntingly. How strange and hot a glee she felt in hurting
him!

"By God, I'll show you!" he cried, hoarsely.

"What will you do, Jim?" she asked, mockingly.

"I'll shake this camp. I'll rustle for the border. I'll get in with
Kells and Gulden... You'll hear of me, Joan Randle!"

These were names of strange, unknown, and wild men of a growing and
terrible legion on the border. Out there, somewhere, lived desperados,
robbers, road-agents, murderers. More and more rumor had brought tidings
of them into the once quiet village. Joan felt a slight cold sinking
sensation at her heart. But this was only a magnificent threat of Jim's.
He could not do such a thing. She would never let him, even if he could.
But after the incomprehensible manner of woman, she did not tell him
that.

"Bah! You haven't the nerve!" she retorted, with another mocking laugh.

Haggard and fierce, he glared down at her a moment, and then without
another word he strode away. Joan was amazed, and a little sick, a
little uncertain: still she did not call him back.

And now at noon of the next day she had tracked him miles toward the
mountains. It was a broad trail he had taken, one used by prospectors
and hunters. There was no danger of her getting lost. What risk she
ran was of meeting some of these border ruffians that had of late been
frequent visitors in the village. Presently she mounted again and rode
down the ridge. She would go a mile or so farther.

Behind every rock and cedar she expected to find Jim. Surely he had only
threatened her. But she had taunted him in a way no man could stand, and
if there were any strength of character in him he would show it now. Her
remorse and dread increased. After all, he was only a boy--only a couple
of years older than she was. Under stress of feeling he might go to any
extreme. Had she misjudged him? If she had not, she had at least been
brutal. But he had dared to kiss her! Every time she thought of that
a tingling, a confusion, a hot shame went over her. And at length Joan
marveled to find that out of the affront to her pride, and the quarrel,
and the fact of his going and of her following, and especially out of
this increasing remorseful dread, there had flourished up a strange and
reluctant respect for Jim Cleve.

She climbed another ridge and halted again. This time she saw a horse
and rider down in the green. Her heart leaped. It must be Ji