“Why didn’t Jim tell me?” she queried, half to herself.

“Reckon he wasn’t proud of the shape he left Bradley in,” replied Roberts, with a laugh.  “Come on, Joan, an’ make back tracks for home.”

Joan was silent a moment while she looked over the undulating green ridges toward the great gray and black walls.  Something stirred deep within her.  Her father in his youth had been an adventurer.  She felt the thrill and the call of her blood.  And she had been unjust to a man who loved her.

“I’m going after him,” she said.

Roberts did not show any surprise.  He looked at the position of the sun.  “Reckon we might overtake him an’ get home before sundown,” he said, laconically, as he turned his horse.  “We’ll make a short cut across here a few miles, an’ strike his trail.  Can’t miss it.”

Then he set off at a brisk trot and Joan fell in behind.  She had a busy mind, and it was a sign of her preoccupation that she forgot to thank Roberts.  Presently they struck into a valley, a narrow depression between the foothills and the ridges, and here they made faster time.  The valley appeared miles long.  Toward the middle of it Roberts called out to Joan, and, looking down, she saw they had come up with Jim’s trail.  Here Roberts put his mount to a canter, and at that gait they trailed Jim out of the valley and up a slope which appeared to be a pass into the mountains.  Time flew by for Joan, because she was always peering ahead in the hope and expectation of seeing Jim off in the distance.  But she had no glimpse of him.  Now and then Roberts would glance around at the westering sun.  The afternoon had far advanced.  Joan began to worry about home.  She had been so sure of coming up with Jim and returning early in the day that she had left no word as to her intentions.  Probably by this time somebody was out looking for her.

The country grew rougher, rock-strewn, covered with cedars and patches of pine.  Deer crashed out of the thickets and grouse whirred up from under the horses.  The warmth of the summer afternoon chilled.

“Reckon we’d better give it up,” called Roberts back to her.

“No—­no.  Go on,” replied Joan.

And they urged their horses faster.  Finally they reached the summit of the slope.  From that height they saw down into a round, shallow valley, which led on, like all the deceptive reaches, to the ranges.  There was water down there.  It glinted like red ribbon in the sunlight.  Not a living thing was in sight.  Joan grew more discouraged.  It seemed there was scarcely any hope of overtaking Jim that day.  His trail led off round to the left and grew difficult to follow.  Finally, to make matters worse, Roberts’s horse slipped in a rocky wash and lamed himself.  He did not want to go on, and, when urged, could hardly walk.

Roberts got off to examine the injury.  “Wal, he didn’t break his leg,” he said, which was his manner of telling how bad the injury was.  “Joan, I reckon there’ll be some worryin’ back home tonight.  For your horse can’t carry double an’ I can’t walk.”