They came to possess an influence over each other.  She decided how they should meet; he, how they should act.  She had only to be gay, and he was gay; to be sad, and he was sad; to show her preference for serious discourse, and he talked quietly of serious things; to sigh for dreams, and he would rhapsodize.  It sometimes terrified her almost when she saw how much his mood depended on hers.  But once the mood was established, her dominance ceased and his began.  If they were sad or gay or thoughtful or poetic, it was in his way and not in hers.  He took the lead masterfully, and perhaps the more effectually in that it was done unconsciously.  And in a way which every reader will understand, but which genius alone could put into words, this mutual psychical dependence made them feel the need of each other more strongly than any merely physical dependence ever could.

There is much to do in a new and romantic country, where the imminence of a sordid, dreary future, when the soil will raise its own people and the crop will be poor, is mercifully veiled.  The future then counts little in the face of the Past—­the Past with its bearded strong men of other lands, bringing their power and vigour here to be moulded and directed by the influences of the frontier.  Its shadow still lies over the land.

They did it all.  The Rock was still the favourite place to read or talk—­crossbars nailed on firmly made “shinning” unnecessary now—­but it was often deserted for days while they explored.  Bennington had bought the little bronco, and together they extended their investigations of the country in all directions.  They rode to Spring Creek Valley.  They passed the Range over into Custer Valley.  Once they climbed Harney by way of Grizzly Gulch.

Thus they grew to know the Hills intimately.  From the summit of the Rock they would often look abroad over the tangle of valleys and ridges, selecting the objective points for their next expedition.  Many surprises awaited them, for they found that here, as everywhere, a seemingly uniform exterior covered an almost infinite variety.

Or again, the horses were given a rest.  The sarvis-berries ripened, and they picked hatfuls.  Then followed the raspberries on the stony hills.  They walked four unnecessary miles to see a forest fire, and six to buy buckskin work from a band of Sioux who had come up into the timber for their annual supply of tepee poles.  They taught their ponies tricks.  They even went wading together, like two small children, in a pool of Battle Creek.

Bennington was deliciously, carelessly, forgetfully happy.  Only there was Jim Fay.  That individual was as much of a persecution as ever, and he seemed to enjoy a greater intimacy with the girl than did the Easterner.  He did not see her as often as did the latter, but he appeared to be more in her confidence.  Bennington hated Jim Fay.

CHAPTER XIII