Wingate walked toward his wagon.  Banion kept out of the light circle and found his horse.  He stood, leaning his head on his arms in the saddle, waiting, until after what seemed an age she slipped out of the darkness, almost into his arms, standing pale, her fingers lacing and unlacing—­the girl who had kissed him once—­to say good-by.

“Will Banion!” she whispered.  “Yes, I sent for you.  I felt you’d find the letter.”

“Yes, Molly.”  It was long before he would look at her.  “You’re the same,” said he.  “Only you’ve grown more beautiful every day.  It’s hard to leave you—­awfully hard.  I couldn’t, if I saw you often.”

He reached out again and took her in his arms, softly, kissed her tenderly on each cheek, whispered things that lovers do say.  But for his arms she would have dropped again, she was so weak.  She fought him off feebly.

“No!  No!  It is not right!  No!  No!”

“You’re not going to be with us any more?” she said at last.

He shook his head.  They both looked at his horse, his rifle, swung in its sling strap at the saddle horn.  She shook her head also.

“Is this the real good-by, Will?” Her lips trembled.

“It must be.  I have given my word to your father.  But why did you send for me?  Only to torture me?  I must keep my word to hold my train apart.  I’ve promised my men to stick with them.”

“Yes, you mustn’t break your word.  And it was fine just to see you a minute, Will; just to tell you—­oh, to say I love you, Will!  But I didn’t think that was why I sent.  I sent to warn you—­against him.  It seems always to come to the same thing.”

She was trying not to sob.  The man was in but little better case.  The stars did not want them to part.  All the somber wilderness world whispered for them to love and not to part at all.  But after a time they knew that they again had parted, or now were able to do so.

“Listen, Will,” said the girl at last, putting back a lock of her fallen hair.  “I’ll have to tell you.  We’ll meet in Oregon?  I’ll be married then.  I’ve promised.  Oh, God help me!  I think I’m the wickedest woman in all the world, and the most unhappy.  Oh, Will Banion, I—­I love a thief!  Even as you are, I love you!  I guess that’s why I sent for you, after all.

“Go find the scout—­Jim Bridger!” she broke out suddenly.  “He’s going on ahead.  Go on to his fort with him—­he’ll have wagons and horses.  He knows the way.  Go with Bridger, Will!  Don’t go to Oregon!  I’m afraid for you.  Go to California—­and forget me!  Tell Bridger—­”

“Why, where is it?” she exclaimed.

She was feeling in the pocket of her apron, and it was empty.

“I’ve lost it!” she repeated.  “I lose everything!”

“What was it, Molly?”

She leaned her lips to his ear.

“It was gold!”

He stood, the magic name of that metal which shows the color in the shade electrifying even his ignorance of the truth.