Venters noted, however, that the burning flush had
faded into the former pallor.
The sun set behind the high canyon rim, and a cool shade darkened
the walls. Venters fed the dogs and put a halter on the dead
rustlers horse. He allowed Wrangle to browse free. This done,
he cut spruce boughs and made a lean-to for the girl. Then, gently
lifting her upon a blanket, he folded the sides over her. The other
blanket he wrapped about his shoulders and found a comfortable seat
against a spruce-tree that upheld the little shack. Ring and Whitie
lay near at hand, one asleep, the other watchful.
Venters dreaded the night's vigil. At night his mind was active,
and this time he had to watch and think and feel beside a dying
girl whom he had all but murdered. A thousand excuses he invented
for himself, yet not one made any difference in his act or his
self-reproach.
It seemed to him that when night fell black he could see her
white face so much more plainly.
"She'll go, presently," he said, "and be out of agony--thank
God!"
Every little while certainty of her death came to him with a
shock; and then he would bend over and lay his ear on her breast.
Her heart still beat.
The early night blackness cleared to the cold starlight. The
horses were not moving, and no sound disturbed the deathly
silence of the canyon.
"I'll bury her here," thought Venters, "and let her grave be as
much a mystery as her life was.
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