Stick out your exile--and maybe--some day--" Then she lost her voice.

Duane clasped her hand and with feeling as deep as hers promised to remember her words.

In her despair for him she had spoken wisdom--pointed out the only course.
Duane's vigilance, momentarily broken by emotion, had no sooner reasserted itself than he discovered the bay horse, the one Jennie rode, had broken his halter and gone off.

The soft wet earth had deadened the sound of his hoofs.

His tracks were plain in the mud.