It had been a hot day, with great thunderhead, black and creamy white clouds rolling down from the canyon country.  No rain had fallen at the Ford, though storms near by had cooled the air.  At sunset Slone saw a rainbow bending down, ruddy and gold, connecting the purple of cloud with the purple of horizon.

Out beyond the valley the clouds were broken, showing rifts of blue, and they rolled low, burying the heads of the monuments, creating a wild and strange spectacle.  Twilight followed, and appeared to rise to meet the darkening clouds.  And at last the gold on the shafts faded; the monuments faded; and the valley grew dark.

Slone took advantage of the hour before moonrise to steal down into the grove, there to wait for Lucy.  She came so quickly he scarcely felt that he waited at all; and then the time spent with her, sweet, fleeting, precious, left him stronger to wait for her again, to hold himself in, to cease his brooding, to learn faith in something deeper than he could fathom.

The next day he tried to work, but found idle waiting made the time fly swifter because in it he could dream.  In the dark of the rustling cottonwoods he met Lucy, as eager to see him as he was to see her, tender, loving, remorseful—­a hundred sweet and bewildering things all so new, so unbelievable to Slone.

That night he learned that Bostil had started for Durango with some of his riders.  This trip surprised Slone and relieved him likewise, for Durango was over two hundred miles distant, and a journey there even for the hard riders was a matter of days.

“He left no orders for me,” Lucy said, “except to behave myself. . . .  Is this behaving?” she whispered, and nestled close to Slone, audacious, tormenting as she had been before this dark cloud of trouble.  “But he left orders for Holley to ride with me and look after me.  Isn’t that funny?  Poor old Holley!  He hates to doublecross Dad, he says.”

“I’m glad Holley’s to look after you,” replied Slone.  “Yesterday I saw you tearin’ down into the sage on Sarch.  I wondered what you’d do, Lucy, if Cordts or that loon Creech should get hold of you?”

“I’d fight!”

“But, child, that’s nonsense.  You couldn’t fight either of them.”

“Couldn’t I?  Well, I just could.  I’d—­I’d shoot Cordts.  And I’d whip Joel Creech with my quirt.  And if he kept after me I’d let Sarch run him down.  Sarch hates him.”

“You’re a brave sweetheart,” mused Slone.  “Suppose you were caught an’ couldn’t get away.  Would you leave a trail somehow?”

“I sure would.”

“Lucy, I’m a wild-horse hunter,” he went on, thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself.  “I never failed on a trail.  I could track you over bare rock.”

“Lin, I’ll leave a trail, so never fear,” she replied.  “But don’t borrow trouble.  You’re always afraid for me.  Look at the bright side.  Dad seems to have forgotten you.  Maybe it all isn’t so bad as we thought.  Oh, I hope so! . . .  How is my horse, Wildfire?  I want to ride him again.  I can hardly keep from going after him.”