“Nothing,” said Van, “nothing this afternoon.”  He stood up.  “You and I break even, Barger, understand?  Don’t take me wrong.  I’m not turning you loose entirely.  You belong to me.  Whenever I call for the joker, Matt, I want you to come.”

He would never call, and he knew it.  He merely left the matter thus to establish a species of ownership that Barger must acknowledge.  There is law of the State, and law of God, and law of man to man.  The latter it was that concerned Van Buren now, and upon it he was acting.

Laboriously, weakly, Barger arose to his feet.  He looked at Van peculiarly, with a strange light dully firing in his eyes.

“I agree to that,” he answered slowly.  “I agree to that.”

He put out his hand to shake—­to bind his agreement.  It was almost like offering his oath.

Van took it, and gave it his usual grip.

“So long, Barger,” he said.  “I reckon you need these boots.”

He waved his hand loosely at the boots that lay upon the ground, went at once to his horse, and mounted to his seat.

“The regular ford of this river’s down below,” he added to the speechless convict, standing there gaunt and wondering upon the marge.  “So long.”

Barger said nothing.  Van rode away on the trail by the stream, and was presently gone, around the bend.

CHAPTER XXXVI

VAN RUNS AMUCK

Instead of turning northward in the mountain range and riding on to the “Laughing Water” claim, Van continued straight ahead to Goldite.  The letter to Beth was heavy in his pocket.  Until he should rid himself of its burden he knew he should have no peace—­no freedom to act for himself.

He had been delayed.  The sun was setting when at last he rode his broncho to the hay-yard in the camp, and saw that he was fed with proper care.  Then he got some boots and walked to Mrs. Dick’s.

Beth, from her window, looking towards the sun, discovered him coming to the place.  She had never in her life felt so wildly joyous at beholding any being of the earth.  She had watched for hours, counting his steps across the desert’s desolation one by one, tracing his course from Starlight “home” by all the signs along the trail which she and he had traveled together.

She ran downstairs like a child.  She had momentarily forgotten even Glen.  Nothing counted but this sight of Van—­his presence here with herself.  When she suddenly burst from the door into all the golden glory of the sunset, herself as glorious with color, warmth, and youth as the great day-orb in the west, Van felt his heart give one tumultuous heave in his breast, despite the resentment he harbored.

There had never been a moment when her smile had been so radiant, when the brown of her eyes had been so softly lighted and glowing, when her cheeks had so mirrored her beauty.