He was gone.  She had escaped something raw and violent.  Dazedly she realized it, with unutterable relief.  And she sat there slowly gathering the nervous force that had been shattered.  Every word that he had uttered was stamped in startling characters upon her consciousness.  But she was still under the deadening influence of shock.  This raw experience was the worst the West had yet dealt her.  It brought back former states of revulsion and formed them in one whole irrefutable and damning judgment that seemed to blot out the vaguely dawning and growing happy susceptibilities.  It was, perhaps, just as well to have her mind reverted to realistic fact.  The presence of Haze Ruff, the astounding truth of the contact with his huge sheep-defiled hands, had been profanation and degradation under which she sickened with fear and shame.  Yet hovering back of her shame and rising anger seemed to be a pale, monstrous, and indefinable thought, insistent and accusing, with which she must sooner or later reckon.  It might have been the voice of the new side of her nature, but at that moment of outraged womanhood, and of revolt against the West, she would not listen.  It might, too, have been the still small voice of conscience.  But decision of mind and energy coming to her then, she threw off the burden of emotion and perplexity, and forced herself into composure before the arrival of Glenn.

The dust had ceased to blow, although the wind had by no means died away.  Sunset marked the west in old rose and gold, a vast flare.  Carley espied a horseman far down the road, and presently recognized both rider and steed.  He was coming fast.  She went out and, mounting her mustang, she rode out to meet Glenn.  It did not appeal to her to wait for him at the cabin; besides hoof tracks other than those made by her mustang might have been noticed by Glenn.  Presently he came up to her and pulled his loping horse.

“Hello!  I sure was worried,” was his greeting, as his gloved hand went out to her.  “Did you run into that sandstorm?”

“It ran into me, Glenn, and buried me,” she laughed.

His fine eyes lingered on her face with glad and warm glance, and the keen, apprehensive penetration of a lover.

“Well, under all that dust you look scared,” he said.

“Scared!  I was worse than that.  When I first ran into the flying dirt I was only afraid I’d lose my way—­and my complexion.  But when the worst of the storm hit me—­then I feared I’d lose my breath.”

“Did you face that sand and ride through it all?” he queried.

“No, not all.  But enough.  I went through the worst of it before I reached the cabin,” she replied.

“Wasn’t it great?”

“Yes—­great bother and annoyance,” she said, laconically.

Whereupon he reached with long, arm and wrapped it round her as they rocked side by side.  Demonstrations of this nature were infrequent with Glenn.  Despite losing one foot out of a stirrup and her seat in the saddle Carley rather encouraged it.  He kissed her dusty face, and then set her back.