She was almost too tired to care how such a thing would appear.  He thought her a man—­it had been inescapable—­there was nothing she could do to prevent the course of events.  And come what might she must presently slip from that saddle, in her weakness, faintness, and hunger, if the penalty were all but life itself.

“I’m—­sure I can walk—­and let you ride,” she said.  “I’d like to go on, but I know I can’t sit here any longer.”

She tried to dismount by herself—­as any man must do.  In her stiffness she practically fell from the saddle, sinking on her side upon the ground.  Only for a second was she prostrate thus at his feet, but her coat fell back from her kahki vest—­and a gleam of the moonlight fell upon a bright little object, pinned above her heart.

Van beheld it—­and knew what it was—­his nugget, washed from the “Laughing Water” claim!

The truth seemed to pour upon him like the waters of an all-engulfing wave—­the overwhelming, wonderful truth that was also almost terrible, in what it might mean to them both.

There was one thing only the man could do—­ignore this fact that he had discovered and treat her like a man.  This he knew instantly.  He turned with a man’s indifference to one of his sex and vaulted to Suvy’s back.

“Come on,” he said, “if you’re anxious to get under cover.”

He could trust himself to say no more.  He rode ahead.

Beth did her best to follow, and make no complaint.  The broncho, however, was a rapid walker.  This she had not realized while Van was striding on in the lead.  She fell behind repeatedly, and Van was obliged to halt his horse and wait.  She began to be lame.  It had been a torture to ride; it was agony to walk.

Van now became strangely urgent.  He had never loved her more.  His love had taken on a sacredness, out here in the night, with Beth so weary and helpless.  More than anything he had ever desired in his life he wished to keep her sacred—­spared from such a complication as their night out here alone might engender.

Yet he saw the first little limp when she began to falter.  He was watching backward constantly, his whole nature eager to protect her—­save her from hurt, from this merciless toil across the desert.  He longed to take her in his arms and carry her thus, securely.  He was torn between the wish to hasten her along, for her own greater ease of mind, and the impulse to halt this hardship.  He knew not what to do.

They had gone much less than a mile when he brought up his pony at her side.

“Here, Kent,” he said, “you walk like a bride-groom going up the aisle.  You’ll have to get up here and ride.”  He dismounted actively.

Beth could have dropped in her tracks for weariness.  She was tired to the marrow of her bones.

“I can’t,” she answered.  “Perhaps—­we’d better camp.”  A hot flush rushed upward to her very scalp, fortunately, however, unseen.