Jim took her to a place kept by a Mexican.  It appeared to consist of two tents, with opening in front and door between.  The table was a plank resting upon two barrels, and another plank, resting upon kegs, served as a seat.  There was a smoking lamp that flickered.  The Mexican’s tableware was of a crudeness befitting his house, but it was clean and he could cook—­two facts that Joan appreciated after her long experience of Bate Wood.  She and Jim were the only customers of the Mexican, who spoke English rather well and was friendly.  Evidently it pleased him to see the meal enjoyed.  Both the food and the friendliness had good effect upon Jim Cleve.  He ceased to listen all the time and to glance furtively out at every footstep.

“Joan, I guess it’ll turn out all right,” he said, clasping her hand as it rested upon the table.  Suddenly he looked bright-eyed and shy.  He leaned toward her.  “Do you remember—­we are married?” he whispered.

Joan was startled.  “Of course,” she replied hastily.  But had she forgotten?

“You’re my wife.”

Joan looked at him and felt her nerves begin to tingle.  A soft, warm wave stole over her.

Like a boy he laughed.  “This was our first meal together—­on our honeymoon!”

“Jim!” The blood burned in Joan’s face.

“There you sit—­you beautiful ...  But you’re not a girl now.  You’re Dandy Dale.”

“Don’t call me that!” exclaimed Joan.

“But I shall—­always.  We’ll keep that bandit suit always.  You can dress up sometimes to show off—­to make me remember—­to scare the—­ the kids—­”

“Jim Cleve!”

“Oh, Joan, I’m afraid to be happy.  But I can’t help it.  We’re going to get away.  You belong to me.  And I’ve sacks and sacks of gold-dust.  Lord!  I’ve no idea how much!  But you can never spend all the money.  Isn’t it just like a dream?”

Joan smiled through tears, and failed trying to look severe.

“Get me and the gold away—­safe—­before you crow,” she said.

That sobered him.  He led her out again into the dark street with its dark forms crossing to and fro before the lights.

“It’s a long time before morning.  Where can I take you—­so you can sleep a little?” he muttered.

“Find a place where we can sit down and wait,” she suggested.

“No.”  He pondered a moment.  “I guess there’s no risk.”

Then he led her up the street and through that end of camp out upon the rough, open slope.  They began to climb.  The stars were bright, but even so Joan stumbled often over the stones.  She wondered how Jim could get along so well in the dark and she clung to his arm.  They did not speak often, and then only in whispers.  Jim halted occasionally to listen or to look up at the bold, black bluff for his bearings.  Presently he led her among broken fragments of cliff, and half carried her over rougher ground, into a kind of shadowy pocket or niche.