October had not yet gone when they met again in a Medicine Bend street. Glover, leaving the Wickiup with Morris Blood, ran into Gertrude Brock coming out of an Indian curio-shop with Doctor Lanning. She began at once to talk to Glover. “Marie was regretting, yesterday, that you had not yet found your way to Glen Tarn.”

The sun beat intensely on her black hat and her suit of gray. In her gloved hand she twirled the tip of her open sunshade on the pavement with deliberation and he shifted his footing helplessly. His heavy face never looked homelier than in sunshine, and she gazed at him with a calmness that was staggering. He muttered something about having been unusually busy.

“We, too, have been,” smiled Gertrude, “making final preparations for our departure.”

“Do you go so soon?” he exclaimed.

“We are waiting only papa’s return now to say good-by to the mountains.” The way in which she put it stirred him as she had intended it should uncomfortably.

“I should certainly want to say good-by to your sister,” muttered Glover. But in saying even so little his naturally unsteady voice broke one extra tone, and when this happened it angered him.

“You are not timid, are you?” continued Gertrude.

“I think I am something of a coward.”

“Then you shouldn’t venture,” she laughed, “Marie has a scolding for you.”

Morris Blood had been telling Doctor Lanning that he and Glover were to go over to Sleepy Cat on the train the doctor and Gertrude were to take back to Glen Tarn. The two railroad men were just starting across the yard to inspect an engine, the 1018, which was to pull the limited train that day for the first time. It was a new monster, planned by the modest little Manxman, Robert Crosby, for the first district run. “Help her over the pass,” Crosby had whispered the superintendent of motive power hardly ever spoke aloud “and she’ll buck a headwind like a canvas-back. Give her decent weather, and on the Sleepy Cat trail she’ll run away with six, yes, eight Pullmans.”

Doctor Lanning was curious to look over the new machine, the first to signalize the new ownership of the line, and Gertrude was quite ready to accept Blood’s invitation to go also.

With the doctor under the superintendent’s wing, Gertrude, piloted by Glover, crossed the network of tracks, asking railroad questions at every step.

Reaching the engine, she wanted to get up into the cab, to say that, before leaving the mountains forever, she had been once inside an engine. Glover, after some delay, procured a stepladder from the “rip” track, and with this the daughter of the magnate made an unusual but easy ascent to the cab. More than that, she made herself a heroine to every yardman in sight, and strengthened the new administration incalculably.

She ignored a conventional offer of waste from the man in charge of the cab, who she was surprised to learn, after some sympathetic remarks on her part, was not the engineman at all. He was a man that had something to do with horses. And when she suggested it would be quite an event for so big an engine to go over the mountains for the first time, the hostler told her it had already been over a good many times.

But Mr. Blood had an easy explanation for every confusing statement, and did not falter even when Miss Brock wanted to start the 1018 herself. He objected that she would soil her gloves, but she held them up in derision; plainly, they had already suffered. Some difficulty then arose because she could not begin to reach the throttle. Again, with much chaffing, the stepladder was brought into play, and steadied on it by Morris Blood, and coached by the hostler, the heiress to many millions grasped the throttle, unlatched it and pulled at the lever vigorously with both hands.

The packing was new, but Gertrude persisted, the bar yielded, and to her great fright things began to hiss. The engine moved like a roaring leviathan, and the author of the mischief screamed, tried to stop it, and being helpless appealed to the unshaven man to help her. Glover, however, was nearest and shut off.

It was all very exciting, and when on the turntable Gertrude was told by the doctor that her suit was completely ruined she merely held up both her blackened gloves, laughing, as Glover came up; and caught up her begrimed skirt and joined him with a flush on her cheeks as bright as a danger signal.

Some fervor of the magical day, under those skies where autumn itself is only a heavier wine than spring, something of the deep breath of the mountain scene seemed to infect her.

She walked at Glover’s side. She recalled with the slightest pretty mirth his fetching the ladder the way in which he had crossed a flat car by planting the ladder alongside, mounting, pulling the steps after him, and descending on them to the other side.

In her humor she faintly suggested his awkward competence in doing things, and he, too, laughed. As they crossed track after track she would place the toe of her boot on a rail glittering in the sun, and rising, balance an instant to catch an answer from him before going on. There was no haste in their manner. They had crossed the railroad yard, strangers; they recrossed it quite other. Their steps they retraced, but not their path. The path that led them that day together to the engine was never to be retraced.

To worry Crosby’s new locomotive, Blood’s car had been ordered added to the westbound limited, but neither Glover nor Blood spent any time in the private car. The afternoon went in the Pullman with Gertrude Brock and Doctor Lanning. At dinner Glover did the ordering because he had earlier planned to celebrate the promotion, already known, of Morris Blood to the general superintendency.

If there were few lines along which the construction engineer could shine he at least appeared to advantage as the host of his friend, since the ordering of a dinner is peculiarly a gentleman’s matter, and even the modest complement of wine which the occasion demanded, Glover toasted in a way that revealed the boyish loyalty between the two men.

The spirit of it was so contagious that neither the doctor nor Gertrude made scruple of adding their congratulations. But the moments were fleeting and Glover, next day, could recall them up to one scene only. When Gertrude found she could not, even after a brave effort, ride with her back to the engine, and accepted so graciously Mr. Blood’s offer to change seats, it brought her beside Glover; after that his memory failed.

In the morning he felt miserably overdone, as at Sleepy Cat a man might after running a preliminary half way to heaven. Moreover, when they parted he had, he remembered, undertaken to dine the following evening at the Springs.

When he entered the apartments of the Pittsburg party at six o’clock, Mrs. Whitney reproached him for his absence during their month at Glen Tarn, and in Mrs. Whitney’s manner, peremptorily.

“I’m sure we’ve missed seeing everything worth while about here,” she complained. Her annoyance put Glover in good humor. Marie met him with a gentler reproach. “And we go next week!”

“But you’ve seen everything, I know,” he protested, answering both of them.

“Whether we have or not, Mr. Glover should be penalized for his indifference,” suggested Marie. Doctor Lanning came in. “Compel him to show us something we haven’t seen around the lake,” suggested the doctor. “That he cannot do; then we have only to decide on his punishment.”

“Oh, yes, I want to be on that jury,” said Gertrude, entering softly in black.

“But is this Pittsburg justice?” objected Glover, rising at the spell of her eyes to the raillery. “Shouldn’t I have a try at the scenery end of the proposition before sentence is demanded?”

“Justify quickly, then,” threatened Marie, as they started for the dining-room; “we are not trifling.”

“Of course you’ve been here a month,” began Glover, when the party were seated.

“Yes.”

“Out every day.”

“Yes.”

“The guides have all your money?”

“Yes.”

“Then I stake everything on a single throw

“A professional,” interjected Doctor Lanning.

“Only desperate gamesters stake all on a single throw,” said Gertrude warningly.

“I am a desperate gamester,” said Glover, “and now for it. Have you seen the Devil’s Gap?”

A chorus of derision answered.

“The very first day the very first trip!” cried Mrs. Whitney, raising her tone one note above every other protest.

“And you staked all on so wretched a chance?” exclaimed Gertrude. “Why, Devil’s Gap is the stock feature of every guide, good, bad, and indifferent, at the Springs.”

“I have staked more at heavier odds,” returned Glover, taking the storm calmly, “and won. Have you made but one trip, when you first came, do you say?”

“The very first day.”

“Then you haven’t seen Devil’s Gap. To see it,” he continued, “you must see it at night.”

“At night?”

“With the moon rising over the Spanish Sinks.”

“Ah, how that sounds!” exclaimed Marie.

“To-night we have full moon,” added Glover. “Don’t say too lightly you have seen Devil’s Gap, for that is given to but few tourists.”

“Do not call us tourists,” objected Gertrude.

“And from where did you see Devil’s Gap The Pilot?”

“No, from across the Tarn.”

If the expression of Glover’s face, returning somewhat the ridicule heaped on him, was intended to pique the interest of the sightseers it was effective. He was restored, provisionally, to favor; his suggestion that after dinner they take horses for the ride up Pilot Mountain to where the Gap could be seen by moonlight was eagerly adopted, and Mrs. Whitney’s objection to dressing again was put down. Marie, fearing the hardship, demurred, but Glover woke to so lively interest, and promised the trip should be so easy that when she consented to go he made it his affair to attend directly to her comfort and safety.

He summoned one particular liveryman, not a favorite at the fashionable hotel, and to him gave especial injunctions about the horses. The girths Glover himself went over at starting, and in the riding he kept near Marie.

Lighted by the stars, they left the hotel in the early evening. “How are you to find your way, Mr. Glover?” asked Marie, as they threaded the path He led her into after they had reached the mountain. “Is this the road we came on?”

“I could climb Pilot blindfolded, I reckon. When we came in here I ran surveys all around the old fellow, switchbacks and everything. The line is a Chinese puzzle about here for ten miles. The path you’re on now is an old Indian trail out of Devil’s Gap. The guides don’t use it because it is too long. The Gap is a ten-dollar trip, in any case, and naturally they make it the shortest way.”

For thirty minutes they rode in darkness, then leaving a sharp defile they emerged on a plateau.

Across the Sinks the moon was rising full and into a clear sky. To the right twinkled the lights of Glen Tarn, and below them yawned the unspeakable wrench in the granite shoulders of the Pilot range called Devil’s Gap. Out of its appalling darkness projected miles of silvered spurs tipped like grinning teeth by the light of the moon.

“There are a good many Devil’s Gaps in the Rockies,” said Glover, after the silence had been broken; “but, I imagine, if the devil condescends to acknowledge any he wouldn’t disclaim this.”

Gertrude stood beside her sister. “You are quite right,” she admitted. “We have spent our month here and missed the only overpowering spectacle. This is Dante.”

“Indeed it is,” he assented, eagerly. “I must tell you. The first time I got into the Gap with a locating party I had a volume of Dante in my pack. It is an unfortunate trait of mine that in reading I am compelled to chart the topography of a story as I go along. In the ‘Inferno’ I could never get head or tail of the topography. One night we camped on this very ledge. In the night the horses roused me. When I opened the tent fly the moon was up, about where it is now. I stood till I nearly froze, looking but I thought after that I could chart the ‘Inferno.’ If it weren’t so dry, or if we were going to stay all night, I should have a camp-fire; but it wouldn’t do, and before you get cold we must start back.

“See,” he pointed, far down on the left. “Can you make out that speck of light? It is the headlight of a freight train crawling up the range from Sleepy Cat. When the weather is right you can see the white head of Sleepy Cat Mountain from this spot. That train will wind around in sight of this knob for an hour, climbing to the mining camps.”

Doctor Lanning called to Marie. Gertrude stood with Glover.

“Is that the desert of the Spanish Sinks?” she asked, looking into the stream of the moon.

“Yes.”

“Is that where you were lost two days?”

“My horse got away. Have you hurt your hand?”

She was holding her right hand in her left. “I tore my glove on a thorn, coming up. It is not much.”

“Is it bleeding?”

“I don’t know; can you see?”

She drew down the glove gauntlet and held her hand up. If his breath caught he did not betray it, but while he touched her she could very plainly feel his hand tremble; yet for that matter his hand, she knew, trembled frequently. He struck a match. It was no part of her audacity to betray herself, and she stepped directly between the others and the little blaze and looked into his face while he Inspected her wrist. “Can you see?”

“It is scratched badly, but not bleeding,” he answered.

“It hurts.”

“Very likely; the wounds that hurt most don’t always bleed,” he said, evenly. “Let us go.”

“Oh, no,” she said; “not quite yet. This is unutterable. I love this.”

“Your aunt, I fear, is not interested. She is complaining of the cold. I can’t light a fire; the mountain is all timber below

“Aunt Jane would complain in heaven, but that wouldn’t signify she didn’t appreciate it. Why are you so quickly put out? It isn’t like you to be out of humor.” She drew on her glove slowly. “I wish you had this wrist

“I wish to God I had.” The sudden words frightened her. She showed her displeasure in half turning away, then she resolutely faced him. “I am not going to quarrel with you even if you make fun of me

“Fun of you?”

“Even if you put an unfair sense on what I say.”

“I meant what I said in every sense, either to take the pain or the other. I couldn’t make fun of you. Do you never make fun of me, Miss Brock?”

“No, Mr. Glover, I do not. If you would be sensible we should do very well. You have been so kind, and we are to leave the mountains so soon, we ought to be good friends.”

“Will you tell me one thing, Miss Brock are you engaged?”

“I don’t think you should ask, Mr. Glover. But I am not engaged unless that in a sense I am,” she added, doubtfully.

“What sense, please?”

“That I have given no answer. Are you still complaining of the cold, Aunt Jane?” she cried, in desperation, turning toward Mrs. Whitney. “I find it quite warm over here. Mr. Glover and I are still watching the freight train. Come over, do.”

Going back, Glover rode near to Gertrude, who had grown restless and imperious. To hunt this queer mountain-lion was recreation, but to have the mountain-lion hunt her was disquieting.

She complained again of her wounded hand, but refused all suggestions, and gave him no credit for riding between her and the thorny trees through the canyon. It was midnight when the party reached the hotel, and when Gertrude stepped across the parlor to the water-pitcher, Glover followed. “I must thank you for your thoughtfulness of my little sister to-night,” she was saying.

He was so intent that he forgot to reply.

“May I ask one question?” he said.

“That depends.”

“When you make answer may I know what it is?”

“Indeed you may not.”