against the
back of the chair. Long after he had crossed with Steve and Garry to
their tents he continued to explode with soft chuckles.

"I never did say," he defended himself, "that that sentiment was
strictly appropriate. I always stated that it was the best I could.
And as for my technique--well, either of you guys try it some time!
You just take a needleful of that yellow worsted and start tracking
across a couple of yards of red and pathless desert, and see where you
come out. I know, because I've done it. I'm a pioneer. But if I ever
tackle another job like that it's going to be a crazy-quilt!"

And Joe considered, in spite of the din which answered him, that his
challenge was ample.

CHAPTER XVIII

I'M TELLING YOU GOOD-BYE

It was fully an hour after Fat Joe and Garry had rolled themselves up
in their blankets when Steve, who had elected to sit up for one last
pipe even though his body was aching with fatigue, heard behind him the
approach of her footsteps. Outside at the top of the rise some fifty
yards in front of the tents, he had seated himself on a log, chin
buried in one palm and eyes vacantly steady before him; but even before
he turned--before he rose slowly to his feet--he knew who was coming,
knew and realized that she should not have come. Wrapped in a long
heavy coat, face half-hidden by the upturned collar, bare of head,
Barbara came quietly down to where he waited. And without word of
greeting on the part of either of them, they sat down together, facing
the silvered bowl of the valley.

Time passed before Barbara opened her lips for a long, quivering intake
of breath.

"I never dreamed it could be so big," she murmured in awe. "And then
to think that some day--within a few months in reality--engines will go
screeching their signals across this very place. It doesn't seem
possible; it seems almost a shame to spoil it, too."

Her earnestness was so unconsciously wistful that Steve could not help
but smile at it a little, even though he had been telling himself,
since the moment of her coming, that he must not let himself dwell just
then upon that wistfulness which, for many hours, had been most
apparent to him.

"I've felt that way about it often," he answered, almost dully. "I
like it better myself, as it is. It does appear to be a long way
ahead, doesn't it--that day of completion which you cover in the
screech of the whistles? Only to-day, when we were scrambling a