went with downward head.  When Louise Macon turned to him, he had reached the point where he swung his head around first and then grudgingly followed the movement with his body.  The girl was tired, also, in spite of the fact that she had covered every inch of the distance in the saddle.  There was that violet shade of weariness under her eyes and her shoulders slumped forward.  Only Donnegan, the hater of labor, was fresh.

They had started in the first dusk of the coming day; it was now the yellow time of the slant afternoon sunlight; between these two points there had been a body of steady plodding.  The girl had looked askance at that gaunt form of Donnegan’s when they began; but before three hours, seeing that the spring never left his step nor the swinging rhythm his stride, she began to wonder.  This afternoon, nothing he did could have surprised her.  From the moment he entered the house the night before he had been a mystery.  Till her death day she would not forget the fire with which he had stared up at her from the foot of the stairs.  But when he came out of her father’s room—­not cowed and whipped as most men left it—­he had looked at her with a veiled glance, and since that moment there had always been a mist of indifference over his eyes when he looked at her.

In the beginning of that day’s march all she knew was that her father trusted her to this stranger, Donnegan, to take her to The Corner, where he was to find Jack Landis and bring Jack back to his old allegiance and find what he was doing with his time and his money.  It was a quite natural proceeding, for Jack was a wild sort, and he was probably gambling away all the gold that was dug in his mines.  It was perfectly natural throughout, except that she should have been trusted so entirely to a stranger.  That was a remarkable thing, but, then, her father was a remarkable man, and it was not the first time that his actions had been inscrutable, whether concerning her or the affairs of other people.  She had heard men come into their house cursing Colonel Macon with death in their faces; she had seen them sneak out after a soft-voiced interview and never appear again.  In her eyes, her father was invincible, all-powerful.  When she thought of superlatives, she thought of him.  Her conception of mystery was the smile of the colonel, and her conception of tenderness was bounded by the gentle voice of the same man.  Therefore, it was entirely sufficient to her that the colonel had said:  “Go, and trust everything to Donnegan.  He has the power to command you and you must obey—­until Jack comes back to you.”

That was odd, for, as far as she knew, Jack had never left her.  But she had early discarded any will to question her father.  Curiosity was a thing which the fat man hated above all else.