They came at the end of that time to one of the upper reaches of that same river she had forded the previous day.  To all appearances the wide shallow bed was a counterpart of the one over which her horse had waded.  But the trail turned sharply down the stream, and followed along its bank.

They had halted for the pony to drink.  Van also refreshed himself and Beth dismounted to lie flat down and quench her long, trying thirst.

“Right across there, high up in the hills, is the ‘Laughing Water’ claim,” said Van, pointing north-eastward towards the mountains.  “Only three miles away, if we could fly, but six as we have to go around.”

“And why do we have to go around?” Beth inquired.  “Aren’t we going to cross the river here?”

“Looks like a river, I admit,” he said, eying the placid stream.  “That’s a graveyard there—­quicksand all the way across.”

Beth’s heart felt a shock at the thought of what could occur to a traveler here, unacquainted with the treacherous waters.

“Good gracious!” she said.  She added generously:  “Couldn’t I walk a little now, and—­share the horse?”

“When you walk it gets on Suvy’s nerves to try to keep step,” he answered.  “Fall in.”

They went two miles down the river, then, across on a rock-and-gravel bottom, at a ford directly opposite a jagged rift in the mountains.  This chasm, which was short and steep, they traversed perspiringly.  The sun was getting warm.  Beyond them then the way was all a rough, hard climb, over ridges, down through canyons, around huge dykes of rock and past innumerable foldings of the range.  How Van knew the way was more than Beth could understand.  She was already growing wearied anew, since the night had afforded her very little rest, and she had not eaten for nearly a day.

Van knew she was in no condition for the ride.  He was watching her constantly, rejoicing in her spirit, but aching for her aches.  He set a faster pace for the broncho to follow, to end the climb as soon as possible.

At length, below a rounded ridge, where stunted evergreens made a welcome bit of greenery, he came to a halt.

“We’re almost there,” he said.  “You’ll have to remain at the claim till somewhere near noon, then I’ll show you the way down to Goldite.”

“Till noon?” She looked at him steadily, a light of worry in her eyes as she thought of arriving so late at Mrs. Dick’s, with what consequences—­the Lord alone knew.

“I can’t get away much earlier,” he said, and to this, by way of acting his part, he added:  “Do you want to wear me out?”

She knew what he meant.  He would wait till noon to give her time to rest.  She would need all the rest he could make possible.  And then he would only “show her the way to Goldite.”  He would not ride with her to town.  She might yet escape the compromising plight into which she had been thrust.  His thoughtfulness, it seemed, could have no end.