“Joan, I kissed you because I can’t be a hangdog any longer,” he said.  “I love you and I’m no good without you.  You must care a little for me.  Let’s marry ...  I’ll—­”

“Never!” she replied, like flint.  “You’re no good at all.”

“But I am,” he protested, with passion.  “I used to do things.  But since—­since I’ve met you I’ve lost my nerve.  I’m crazy for you.  You let the other men run after you.  Some of them aren’t fit to—­to—­Oh, I’m sick all the time!  Now it’s longing and then it’s jealousy.  Give me a chance, Joan.”

“Why?” she queried, coldly.  “Why should I?  You’re shiftless.  You won’t work.  When you do find a little gold you squander it.  You have nothing but a gun.  You can’t do anything but shoot.”

“Maybe that’ll come in handy,” he said, lightly.

“Jim Cleve, you haven’t it in you even to be bad,” she went on, stingingly.

At that he made a violent gesture.  Then he loomed over her.  “Joan Handle, do you mean that?” he asked.

“I surely do,” she responded.  At last she had struck fire from him.  The fact was interesting.  It lessened her anger.

“Then I’m so low, so worthless, so spineless that I can’t even be bad?”

“Yes, you are.”

“That’s what you think of me—­after I’ve ruined myself for love of you?”

She laughed tauntingly.  How strange and hot a glee she felt in hurting him!

“By God, I’ll show you!” he cried, hoarsely.

“What will you do, Jim?” she asked, mockingly.

“I’ll shake this camp.  I’ll rustle for the border.  I’ll get in with Kells and Gulden ...  You’ll hear of me, Joan Randle!”

These were names of strange, unknown, and wild men of a growing and terrible legion on the border.  Out there, somewhere, lived desperados, robbers, road-agents, murderers.  More and more rumor had brought tidings of them into the once quiet village.  Joan felt a slight cold sinking sensation at her heart.  But this was only a magnificent threat of Jim’s.  He could not do such a thing.  She would never let him, even if he could.  But after the incomprehensible manner of woman, she did not tell him that.

“Bah!  You haven’t the nerve!” she retorted, with another mocking laugh.

Haggard and fierce, he glared down at her a moment, and then without another word he strode away.  Joan was amazed, and a little sick, a little uncertain:  still she did not call him back.

And now at noon of the next day she had tracked him miles toward the mountains.  It was a broad trail he had taken, one used by prospectors and hunters.  There was no danger of her getting lost.  What risk she ran was of meeting some of these border ruffians that had of late been frequent visitors in the village.  Presently she mounted again and rode down the ridge.  She would go a mile or so farther.