“I am going, John.”

“If we went alone we would be able to return very soon.”

“I am going.”

“And some of the mountains—­it is impossible for a woman to climb them!”

“Then I will let you carry me up them, John.  You are so strong——­”

He groaned hopelessly.

“Joanne, won’t you stay with the Blacktons, to please me?”

“No.  I don’t care to please you.”

Her fingers were stroking his cheek.

“John?”

“Yes.”

“Father taught me to shoot, and as we get better acquainted on our honeymoon trip I’ll tell you about some of my hunting adventures.  I don’t like to shoot wild things, because I love them too well.  But I can shoot.  And I want a gun!”

“Great Scott!”

“Not a toy—­but a real gun,” she continued.  “A gun like yours.  And then, if by any chance we should have trouble—­with Culver Rann——­”

She felt him start, and her hands pressed harder against his face.

“Now I know,” she whispered.  “I guessed it all along.  You told me that Culver Rann and the others were after the gold.  They’ve gone—­and their going isn’t quite ‘skipping the country’ as you meant me to understand it, John Aldous!  So please let’s not argue any more.  If we do we may quarrel, and that would be terrible.  I’m going.  And I will be ready in the morning.  And I want a gun.  And I want you to be nice to me, and I want it to be our honeymoon—­even if it is going to be exciting!”

And with that she put her lips to his, and his last argument was gone.

Two hours later, when he went to the coulee, he was like one who had come out of a strange and disturbing and altogether glorious dream.  He had told Joanne and the Blacktons that it was necessary for him to be with MacDonald that night.  Joanne’s good-night kiss was still warm on his lips, the loving touch of her hands still trembled on his face, and the sweet perfume of her hair was in his nostrils.  He was drunk with the immeasurable happiness that had come to him, every fibre in him was aquiver with it—­and yet, possessed of his great joy, he was conscious of a fear; a fear that was new and growing, and which made him glad when he came at last to the little fire in the coulee.

He did not tell MacDonald the cause of this fear at first.  He told the story of Mortimer FitzHugh and Joanne, leaving no part of it unbared, until he could see Donald MacDonald’s great gaunt hands clenching in the firelight, and his cavernous eyes flaming darkly through the gloom.  Then he told what had happened when the Blacktons went to town, and when he had finished, and rose despairingly beside the fire, Donald rose, too, and his voice boomed in a sort of ecstasy.

“My Jane would ha’ done likewise,” he cried in triumph.  “She would that, Johnny—­she would!”

“But this is different!” groaned Aldous.  “What am I going to do, Mac?  What can I do?  Don’t you see how impossible it is!  Mac, Mac—­she isn’t my wife—­not entirely, not absolutely, not in the last and vital sense of being a wife by law!  If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t consider herself my wife; she would leave me.  For that reason I can’t take her.  I can’t.  Think what it would mean!”