“In two weeks—­not more than two weeks.  It will take all that time to arrange things at the rancho.  As it is, I hardly see my way clear to dismissing my men—­you see, they belong to me, almost, and—­but I’ll do so, never fear.  No power on earth could make me take up the old life again.”

The Girl said nothing in reply; instead she put both her arms around his neck and remained a long time in his embrace.  At last, summoning up all her fortitude she put him resolutely from her, and whispered: 

“When you are ready, come.  You must leave me now.”  And with a curt command to the Indian she fled back into the darkness.

For an instant the road agent’s eyes followed the direction that she had taken; then, his spirits rising at the thought that his escape was now well-nigh assured, he turned and plunged down the ravine.

XV.

As has been said, it was a custom of the miners, whenever a storm made it impossible for them to work in the mines, to turn the dance-hall of the Polka Saloon into an Academy, the post of teacher being filled by the Girl.  It happened, therefore, that early the following morning the men of Cloudy Mountain Camp assembled in the low, narrow room with its walls of boards nailed across inside upright beams—­a typical miners’ dance-hall of the late Forties—­which they had transformed into a veritable bower, so eager were they to please their lovely teacher.  Everyone was in high spirits, Rance alone refraining from taking any part whatsoever in the morning’s activities; dejectedly, sullenly, he sat tilted back in an old, weather-beaten, lumber chair before the heavily-dented, sheet-iron stove in a far corner of the room, gazing abstractedly up towards the stove’s rusty pipe that ran directly through the ceiling; and what with his pale, waxen countenance, his eyes red and half-closed for the want of sleep, his hair ruffled, his necktie awry, his waistcoat unfastened, his boots unpolished, and the burnt-out cigar which he held between his white, emaciated fingers, he was not the immaculate-looking Rance of old, but presented a very sad spectacle indeed.

Outside, through the windows,—­over which had been hung curtains of red and yellow cotton,—­could be seen the green firs on the mountain, their branches dazzling under their burden of snow crystals; and stretching out seemingly interminably until the line of earth and sky met were the great hills white with snow except in the spots where the wind had swept it away.  But within the little, low dance-hall, everywhere were evidences of festivity and good cheer, the walls being literally covered with pine boughs and wreaths of berries, while here and there was an eagle’s wing or an owl’s head, a hawk or a vulture, a quail or a snow-bird, not to mention the big, stuffed game cock that was mounted on a piece of weather-beaten board, until it would seem as if every variety of bird native to the Sierra Mountains was represented there.