She hated them because she was losing her love for them, because they were becoming a part of her, because they were fixed and content and passionless.  She liked to sit in the sun, feel its warmth, see its brightness; and sometimes she almost forgot to go back to her patient.  She fought at times against an insidious change—­a growing older—­a going backward; at other times she drifted through hours that seemed quiet and golden, in which nothing happened.  And by and by when she realized that the drifting hours were gradually swallowing up the restless and active hours, then strangely, she remembered Jim Cleve.  Memory of him came to save her.  She dreamed of him during the long, lonely, solemn days, and in the dark, silent climax of unbearable solitude—­the night.  She remembered his kisses, forgot her anger and shame, accepted the sweetness of their meaning, and so in the interminable hours of her solitude she dreamed herself into love for him.

Joan kept some record of days, until three weeks or thereabout passed, and then she lost track of time.  It dragged along, yet looked at as the past, it seemed to have sped swiftly.  The change in her, the growing old, the revelation and responsibility of serf, as a woman, made this experience appear to have extended over months.

Kells slowly became convalescent and then he had a relapse.  Something happened, the nature of which Joan could not tell, and he almost died.  There were days when his life hung in the balance, when he could not talk; and then came a perceptible turn for the better.

The store of provisions grew low, and Joan began to face another serious situation.  Deer and rabbit were plentiful in the canon, but she could not kill one with a revolver.  She thought she would be forced to sacrifice one of the horses.  The fact that Kells suddenly showed a craving for meat brought this aspect of the situation to a climax.  And that very morning while Joan was pondering the matter she saw a number of horsemen riding up the canon toward the cabin.  At the moment she was relieved, and experienced nothing of the dread she had formerly felt while anticipating this very event.

“Kells,” she said, quickly, “there are men riding up the trail.”

“Good,” he exclaimed, weakly, with a light on his drawn face.  “They’ve been long in—­getting here.  How many?”

Joan counted them—­five riders, and several pack-animals.

“Yes.  It’s Gulden.”

“Gulden!” cried Joan, with a start.

Her exclamation and tone made Kells regard her attentively.

“You’ve heard of him?  He’s the toughest nut—­on this border. ...  I never saw his like.  You won’t be safe.  I’m so helpless. ...  What to say—­to tell him! ...  Joan, if I should happen to croak—­you want to get away quick ... or shoot yourself.”

How strange to hear this bandit warn her of peril the like of which she had encountered through him!  Joan secured the gun and hid it in a niche between the logs.  Then she looked out again.