Behind every rock and cedar she expected to find Jim.  Surely he had only threatened her.  But she had taunted him in a way no man could stand, and if there were any strength of character in him he would show it now.  Her remorse and dread increased.  After all, he was only a boy—­only a couple of years older than she was.  Under stress of feeling he might go to any extreme.  Had she misjudged him?  If she had not, she had at least been brutal.  But he had dared to kiss her!  Every time she thought of that a tingling, a confusion, a hot shame went over her.  And at length Joan marveled to find that out of the affront to her pride, and the quarrel, and the fact of his going and of her following, and especially out of this increasing remorseful dread, there had flourished up a strange and reluctant respect for Jim Cleve.

She climbed another ridge and halted again.  This time she saw a horse and rider down in the green.  Her heart leaped.  It must be Jim returning.  After all, then, he had only threatened.  She felt relieved and glad, yet vaguely sorry.  She had been right in her conviction.

She had not watched long, however, before she saw that this was not the horse Jim usually rode.  She took the precaution then to hide behind some bushes, and watched from there.  When the horseman approached closer she discerned that instead of Jim it was Harvey Roberts, a man of the village and a good friend of her uncle’s.  Therefore she rode out of her covert and hailed him.  It was a significant thing that at the sound of her voice Roberts started suddenly and reached for his gun.  Then he recognized her.

“Hello, Joan!” he exclaimed, turning her way.  “Reckon you give me a scare.  You ain’t alone way out here?”

“Yes.  I was trailing Jim when I saw you,” she replied.  “Thought you were Jim.”

“Trailin’ Jim!  What’s up?”

“We quarreled.  He swore he was going to the devil.  Over on the border!  I was mad and told him to go. ...  But I’m sorry now—­and have been trying to catch up with him.”

“Ahuh! ...  So that’s Jim’s trail.  I sure was wonderin’.  Joan, it turns off a few miles back an’ takes the trail for the border.  I know.  I’ve been in there.”

Joan glanced up sharply at Roberts.  His scarred and grizzled face seemed grave and he avoided her gaze.

“You don’t believe—­Jim’ll really go?” she asked, hurriedly.

“Reckon I do, Joan,” he replied, after a pause.  “Jim is just fool enough.  He had been gettrn’ recklessler lately.  An’, Joan, the times ain’t provocatin’ a young feller to be good.  Jim had a bad fight the other night.  He about half killed young Bradley.  But I reckon you know.”

“I’ve heard nothing,” she replied.  “Tell me.  Why did they fight?”

“Report was that Bradley talked oncomplementary about you.”

Joan experienced a sweet, warm rush of blood—­another new and strange emotion.  She did not like Bradley.  He had been persistent and offensive.