necessary, by killing
some smugglers in conflict, and the United States marshals had been
goaded by vanity and anger at one or two escapes "to have something for
their money," as they said. That, in their language, meant, "to let the
red run," and Kelly Lambton had none too much blood to lose.

He looked very pale and beaten as he held Nance Machell's hands now, and
called her a prairie-flower, as he had done when he left her two months
before. On his arrival but now he had said little, for he saw that she
was glad to see him, and he was dead for sleep, after thirty-six hours
of ceaseless travel and watching and danger. Now, with the most perilous
part of his journey still before him, and worn physically as he was,
his blood was running faster as he looked into the girl's face, and
something in her abundant force and bounding life drew him to her. Such
vitality in a man like Abe Hawley would have angered him almost, as it
did a little time ago, when Abe was there; but possessed by the girl, it
roused in him a hunger to draw from the well of her perfect health, from
the unused vigour of her being, something for himself. The touch of her
hands warmed him, in the fulness of her life, in the strong eloquence
of face and form, he forgot she was not beautiful. The lightness passed
from his words, and his face became eager.

"Flower, yes, the flower of the life of the West--that's what I mean,"
he said. "You are like an army marching. When I look at you, my blood
runs faster. I want to march too. When I hold your hand I feel that
life's worth living--I want to do things."

She drew her hand away rather awkwardly. She had not now that command
of herself which had ever been easy with the men of the West, except,
perhaps, with Abe Hawley when--

But with an attempt, only half-meant, to turn the topic, she said: "You
must be starting if you want to get through to-night. If the redcoats
catch you this side of Barfleur Coulee, or in the Coulee itself,
you'll stand no chance. I heard they was only thirty miles north this
afternoon. Maybe they'll come straight on here to-night, instead of
camping. If they have news of your coming, they might. You can't tell."

"You're right." He caught her hand again. "I've got to be going now. But
Nance--Nance--Nancy, I want to stay here, here with you; or to take you
with me."

She drew back. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Take me with
you--me--where?"

"East--away down East."

Her brain