“Oh!  I want—­to live!  I’m afraid—­to die.  But I’d rather—­die—­than go back—­to—­to—­”

“To Oldring?” asked Venters, interrupting her in turn.

Her lips moved in an affirmative.

“I promise not to take you back to him or to Cottonwoods or to Glaze.”

The mournful earnestness of her gaze suddenly shone with unutterable gratitude and wonder.  And as suddenly Venters found her eyes beautiful as he had never seen or felt beauty.  They were as dark blue as the sky at night.  Then the flashing changed to a long, thoughtful look, in which there was a wistful, unconscious searching of his face, a look that trembled on the verge of hope and trust.

“I’ll try—­to live,” she said.  The broken whisper just reached his ears.  “Do what—­you want—­with me.”

“Rest then—­don’t worry—­sleep,” he replied.

Abruptly he arose, as if words had been decision for him, and with a sharp command to the dogs he strode from the camp.  Venters was conscious of an indefinite conflict of change within him.  It seemed to be a vague passing of old moods, a dim coalescing of new forces, a moment of inexplicable transition.  He was both cast down and uplifted.  He wanted to think and think of the meaning, but he resolutely dispelled emotion.  His imperative need at present was to find a safe retreat, and this called for action.

So he set out.  It still wanted several hours before dark.  This trip he turned to the left and wended his skulking way southward a mile or more to the opening of the valley, where lay the strange scrawled rocks.  He did not, however, venture boldly out into the open sage, but clung to the right-hand wall and went along that till its perpendicular line broke into the long incline of bare stone.

Before proceeding farther he halted, studying the strange character of this slope and realizing that a moving black object could be seen far against such background.  Before him ascended a gradual swell of smooth stone.  It was hard, polished, and full of pockets worn by centuries of eddying rain-water.  A hundred yards up began a line of grotesque cedar-trees, and they extended along the slope clear to its most southerly end.  Beyond that end Venters wanted to get, and he concluded the cedars, few as they were, would afford some cover.

Therefore he climbed swiftly.  The trees were farther up than he had estimated, though he had from long habit made allowance for the deceiving nature of distances in that country.  When he gained the cover of cedars he paused to rest and look, and it was then he saw how the trees sprang from holes in the bare rock.  Ages of rain had run down the slope, circling, eddying in depressions, wearing deep round holes.  There had been dry seasons, accumulations of dust, wind-blown seeds, and cedars rose wonderfully out of solid rock.  But these were not beautiful cedars.  They were gnarled, twisted into weird contortions, as if growth were torture, dead at the tops, shrunken, gray, and old.  Theirs had been a bitter fight, and Venters felt a strange sympathy for them.  This country was hard on trees—­and men.