warm ash from the tepee-fire. And all the burnt-out souls of tamarac and pine and poplar-sticks called to him from it until the wild soul turned in him and answered. The God who made him vagrant knew why; knew why neither love of man nor woman could hold him, though he gave love—and took it—many times; knew why he must guard the homes of others day and night, with never a home of his own; knew why he should track men down for punishment with clear eyes looking to the day when he should be so tracked down himself.
He writhed on his bed like a man under the knife. But he could not speak. He had wronged Tempest too deeply for that. And then, because it was impossible that Tempest should forgive and come to him, Tempest spoke.
"Dick, old man, would you jam some more wood in that stove? I'm cold."
Dick got up and went out for it in silence. When he came back Tempest was treading through and through the shack with a light step that staggered and failed and went on again under the pressure of tight-strung pain. He smiled at Dick in the wan light from the riding stars.
"Thanks awfully, Dick," he said.
Dick filled the stove and stood, looking down at the red eye that winked at him wickedly. He felt that he could neither go nor stay, and presently the power of that uneven tread pulled the words out of him.
"Did you marry her?" he said, unmoving.
Tempest's walk stopped. Then he said, slowly:
"Do you still think I'm a liar?"
"I—don't know. But I will take your word now if you give it."
"Why?"
The quiet word brought the blood drumming to Dick's temples. He spoke savagely to the red winking eye.
"I don't know. I guess—because I have forgotten her—an' I haven't forgotten you."
"She married Ted Savile three months after you went," said Tempest simply. "I never saw her again."
"But she loved you. And you loved her."
"Not so much as I did you, Dick."
That silence lasted long. So long that the red eye shut
