firelight.  Somewhere out there in the dark—­she shuddered as she attempted to visualize what was somewhere out there in the dark.  And then a flash of memory brought with it a ray of hope that cheered her immeasurably.  “Why, he was a champion swimmer in college,” she said aloud.  “He was always winning cups and things.  And he’s strong, and brave—­and yet——­” Vividly to her mind came the picture of the wildly rushing flood with its burden of tossing trees, and the man being swept straight into the gurge of it.  “I’ll tell him he’s brave—­and he’ll spoil it all by saying that it was the only practical thing to do.”  “Oh,” she cried aloud, “I could love him if it were not for his deadly practicability—­even if I should have to live in Cincinnati.”  And straightway fell to comparing the two men.  “Tex is absurdly unconventional in speech and actions, and he has an adorable disregard for laws and things.  He’s just a big, irresponsible boy—­and yet, he makes you feel as if he always knew exactly what to do and how to do it.  And he is brave, too, with a reckless, devil-may-care sort of bravery that takes no thought of cost or consequences.  He knew, when he let go his bridle reins, that he couldn’t swim a stroke—­and he smiled and didn’t care.  And he’s gentle and considerate, too.”  She remembered the look in his eyes when he said:  “You are cold,” and blushed furiously.

It seemed hours she sat there staring into the little fire and listening for sounds from the dark.  But the only sounds that came to her were the sounds of the feeding horses, and in utter weariness she lay back with her head upon a folded blanket, and slept.

When the Texan swung onto his horse after having made the girl comfortable for her long vigil, a scant half-hour of moonlight was left to him.  He gave the horse his head and the animal picked his way among the loose rocks and scrub timber that capped the ridge.  When darkness overtook him he dismounted, unsaddled, and groped about for firewood.  Despite its recent soaking the resinous bull pine flared up at the touch of a match, and with his back to a rock-wall, the cowboy sat and watched the little flames shoot upward.  Once more he felt for his “makings” and with infinite pains dried out his papers and tobacco.

“It’s the chance I be’n aimin’ to make for myself,” he mused, as he drew the grey smoke of a cigarette deep into his lungs, “to get Bat an’ the pilgrim away—­an’ I ride off and leave it.”  The cigarette was consumed and he rolled another.  “Takin’ a slant at himself from the inside, a man kind of gets a line on how damned ornery folks can get.  Purdy got shot, an’ everyone said he got just what was comin’ to him——­ Me, an’ everyone else—­an’ he did.  But when you get down to cases, he wasn’t no hell of a lot worse’n me, at that.  We was both after the same thing—­only his work was coarser.”  For hours the man sat staring into his fire, the while he rolled and smoked many cigarettes.