The cowboy turned abruptly from the trail and the two headed their horses for the valley rim, the animals picking their way through the patches of prickly pears and clumps of low sage whose fragrant aroma rose as a delicate incense to the nostrils of the girl.

Upon the very brink of the valley they halted, and in awed silence Alice sat drinking in the exquisite beauty of the scene.

Before her as far as the eye could see spread the broad reach of the Milk River Valley, its obfusk depths relieved here and there by bright patches of moonlight, while down the centre, twisting in and out among the dark clumps of cottonwoods, the river wound like a ribbon of gleaming silver.  At widely scattered intervals the tiny lights of ranch houses glowed dull yellow in the distance, and almost at her feet the clustering lights of the town shone from the open windows and doors of buildings which stood out distinctly in the moonlight, like a village in miniature.  Faint sounds, scarcely audible in the stillness of the night floated upward—­the thin whine of fiddles, a shot now and then from the pistol of an exuberant cowboy sounding tiny and far away like the report of a boy’s pop-gun.

The torches of the wrecking crew flickered feebly and the drone of their hoisting gears scarce broke the spell of the silence.

Minutes passed as the girl’s eyes feasted upon the details of the scene.

“Oh, isn’t it wonderful!” she breathed, and then in swift alarm, glanced suddenly into the man’s face.  Unnoticed he had edged his horse close so that his leg brushed hers in the saddle.  The hat brim did not conceal the eyes now, that stared boldly into her face and in sudden terror the girl attempted to whirl her horse toward the trail.  But the man’s arm shot out and encircled her waist and his hot breath was upon her cheek.  With all the strength of her arm she swung her quirt, but Purdy held her close; the blow served only to frighten the horses which leaped apart, and the girl felt herself dragged from the saddle.

In the smoking compartment of the Pullman, Endicott finished a cigarette as he watched the girl ride toward the town in company with Purdy.

“She’s a—­a headstrong little fool!” he growled under his breath.  He straightened out his legs and stared gloomily at the brass cuspidor.  “Well, I’m through.  I vowed once before I’d never have anything more to do with her—­and yet—­” He hurled the cigarette at the cuspidor and took a turn up and down the cramped quarters of the little room.  Then he stalked to his seat, met the fat lady’s outraged stare with an ungentlemanly scowl, procured his hat, and stamped off across the flat in the direction of the dance-hall.  As he entered the room a feeling of repugnance came over him.  The floor was filled with noisy dancers, and upon a low platform at the opposite end of the room three shirt-sleeved, collarless fiddlers sawed away at their instruments, as they marked time with boots and bodies, pausing at intervals to mop their sweat-glistening faces, or to swig from a bottle proffered by a passing dancer.  Rows of onlookers of both sexes crowded the walls and Endicott’s glance travelled from face to face in a vain search for the girl.