Deep in her heart she knew why she had not listened.  It had to do with that picture of a pretty girl smiling up happily into his eyes—­ a thing she had not forgotten for one waking moment since.  Like a knife the certainty had stabbed her heart that they were lovers.  Her experience had been limited.  Kodaks had not yet reached Lost Valley as common possessions.  In the mountains no girl had her photograph taken beside a man unless they had a special interest in each other.  And the manner of these two had implied the possession of a secret not known to the world.

So Arlie froze her heart toward the Texan, all the more because he had touched her girlish imagination to sweet hidden dreams of which her innocence had been unnecessarily ashamed.  He had spoken no love to her, nor had he implied it exactly.  There had been times she had thought something more than friendship lay under his warm smile.  But now she scourged herself for her folly, believed she had been unmaidenly, and set her heart to be like flint against him.  She had been ready to give him what he had not wanted.  Before she would let him guess it she would rather die, a thousand times rather, she told herself passionately.

She presently became aware that attention was being directed toward her and Jed and somebody who sat on the other side of her.  Without looking round, she mentioned the fact in a low voice to her partner of the dance just finished.  Jed looked up, and for the first time observed the man behind her.  Instantly the gayety was sponged from his face.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“That man from Texas.”

Arlie felt the blood sting her cheeks.  The musicians were just starting a waltz.  She leaned slightly toward Jed, and said, in a low voice: 

“Did you ask me to dance this with you?”

He had not, but he did now.  He got to his feet, with shining eyes, and whirled her off.  The girl did not look toward the Texan.  Nevertheless, as they circled the room, she was constantly aware of him.  Sitting there, with a smile on his strong face, apparently unperturbed, he gave no hint of the stern fact that he was circled by enemies, any one of whom might carry his death in a hip pocket.  His gaze was serene, unabashed, even amused.

The young woman was irritably suspicious that he found her anger amusing, just as he seemed to find the dangerous position in which he was placed.  Yet her resentment coexisted with a sympathy for him that would not down.  She believed he was marked for death by a coterie of those present, chief of whom was the man smiling down into her face from half-shut, smouldering eyes.

Her heart was a flame of protest against their decree, all the more so because she held herself partly responsible for it.  In a panic of repentance, she had told Dick of her confession to the ranger of the names of the Squaw Creek raiders, and France had warned his confederates.  He had done this, not because he distrusted Fraser, but because he felt it was their due to get a chance to escape if they wanted to do so.