e could fly, but six as we have to go around."

"And why do we have to go around?" Beth inquired. "Aren't we going to
cross the river here?"

"Looks like a river, I admit," he said, eying the placid stream.
"That's a graveyard there--quicksand all the way across."

Beth's heart felt a shock at the thought of what could occur to a
traveler here, unacquainted with the treacherous waters.

"Good gracious!" she said. She added generously: "Couldn't I walk a
little now, and--share the horse?"

"When you walk it gets on Suvy's nerves to try to keep step," he
answered. "Fall in."

They went two miles down the river, then, across on a rock-and-gravel
bottom, at a ford directly opposite a jagged rift in the mountains.
This chasm, which was short and steep, they traversed perspiringly.
The sun was getting warm. Beyond them then the way was all a rough,
hard climb, over ridges, down through canyons, around huge dykes of
rock and past innumerable foldings of the range. How Van knew the way
was more than Beth could understand. She was already growing wearied
anew, since the night had afforded her very little rest, and she had
not eaten for nearly a day.

Van knew she was in no condition for the ride. He was watching her
constantly, rejoicing in her spirit, but aching for her aches. He set
a faster pace for the broncho to follow, to end the climb as soon as
possible.

At length, below a rounded ridge, where stunted evergreens made a
welcome bit of greenery, he came to a halt.

"We're almost there," he said. "You'll have to remain at the claim
till somewhere near noon, then I'll show you the way down to Goldite."

"Till noon?" She looked at him steadily, a light of worry in her eyes
as she thought of arriving so late at Mrs. Dick's, with what
consequences--the Lord alone knew.

"I can't get away much earlier," he said, and to this, by way of acting
his part, he added: "Do you want to wear me out?"

She knew what he meant. He would wait till noon to give her time to
rest. She would need all the rest he could make possible. And then he
would only "show her the way to Goldite." He would not ride with her
to town. She might yet escape the compromising plight into which she
had been thrust. His thoughtfulness, it seemed, could have no end.

"Very well," she murmured. "I'm sorry to have made you all this
trouble." She was not--someways; she was lawlessly, inordinately glad.

The "trouble" for Van had been