Almost to Ba'tiste's cabin he went; at last to turn from the road at the sound of hoofbeats, then to stare as Medaine Robinette, on horseback, passed him at a trot, headed toward her home, the shadowy Lost Wing, on his calico pony, straggling along in the rear.

The next morning he went to Denver, still wondering, as he sought to make himself comfortable on the old red plush seats, wondering whether the girl he had seen in the forest with the man he now felt sure was Fred Thayer had been Agnes Jierdon or Medaine Robinette, whom, in spite of her coldness to him, in spite of her evident distaste and revulsion that was so apparent in their meetings, had awakened within him a thing he had believed, in the drabness of his gray, harassed life, could never exist,--the thrill and the yearnings of love.
It was a question which haunted him during the days in which he cut into his bank account with the purchase of the bare necessities of a sawmill.

It was a question which followed him back to Tabernacle, thence across country to camp.

But it was one that was not to be answered.

Things had happened again.
Ba'tiste was not at the mill, where new foundations had appeared in Houston's absence.