“With you,” she repeated.

“What is it?  I don’t understand.”

She did not seem to hear his question.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“Why—­nothing.”  She caught her breath and recovered command of herself somewhat.  “That is, it is just an old legend that I have often heard, and it startled me for a minute.”

“Will you tell me the legend?”

“Not now; some time.  We must go now, for it will soon be dark.”

They wandered along the ridge toward Deerfoot Gulch in silence.  She had taken her sunbonnet off, and was enjoying the cool of the evening.  He carried the rifle over the crook of his arm, and watched her pensive face.  The poor little chipmunk lay stiffening in the cleft of the rock, forgotten.  The next morning a prying jay discovered him and carried him away.  He was only a little chipmunk after all—­a very little chipmunk—­and nobody and nothing missed him in all the wide world, not even his mate and his young, for mercifully grief in the animal world is generally short-lived where tragedies are frequent.  His life meant little.  His death——­

At the dip of the gulch they paused.

“I live just down there,” she said, “and now, good-night.”

“Mayn’t I take you home?”

“Remember your promise.”

“Oh, very well.”

She looked at him seriously.  “I am going to ask you to do what I have never asked any man before,” she said slowly—­“to meet me.  I want you to come to the rock to-morrow afternoon.  I want to hear more about New York.”

“Of course I’ll come,” he agreed delightedly.  “I feel as if I had known you years already.”

They said good-bye.  She walked a few steps irresolutely down the hillside, and then, with a sudden impulsive movement, returned.  She lifted her face gravely, searchingly to his.

“I like you,” said she earnestly.  “You have kind eyes,” and was gone down through the graceful alder saplings.

Bennington stood and watched the swaying of the leaf tops that marked her progress until she emerged into the lower gulch.  There she turned and looked back toward the ridge, but apparently could not see him, though he waved his hand.  The next instant Jim Fay strolled into the “park” from the direction of Lawton’s cabin.  Bennington saw her spring to meet him, holding out both hands, and then the two strolled back down the gulch talking earnestly, their heads close together.

Why should he care?  “Mary, Mary, Mary!” he cried within himself as he hurried home.  And in remote burial grounds the ancient de Laneys on both sides turned over in their lead-lined coffins.

CHAPTER VI

BENNINGTON AS A MAN OF BUSINESS

That evening Old Mizzou returned from town with a watery eye and a mind that ran to horses.