Linton did not answer. He took her by an arm, raised her to her feet, and turned her face toward the northeast—where a rider came, not more than two or three miles distant.
Linton left her to stand there, while he made his way into one of the bunkhouses, where, with an appearance of unconcern that he did not feel, he watched the coming rider. And when he saw the rider head his horse straight for the gate of the patio, Linton grinned widely and sought some of the other men in the cook-house.
The sun was between the two huge mountains at the western end of the big valley when Harlan dismounted at the patio gate and dropped, tired and dusty, to the bench upon which Barbara sat. Had Linton seen what occurred when Harlan dismounted he would have ceased to speculate over certain phases of the relations between the man and the girl.
Barbara did not seem to mind the dust on Harlan’s sleeve, nor did she feel it on his shoulder where her head was nestling.
For both were looking out into the big valley, where the sun was sinking with a splendor that reminded them of another day.
“The gold isn’t worth mining,” said Harlan, gently. “The assayer used names that didn’t mean anything to me, but he told me enough in plain talk, to prove that your dad wasted his time.”
“I’m satisfied,” said the girl.
“Me too,” smiled Harlan. “There’s somethin’ better than gold.”
“It’s peace—and happiness,” said Barbara, gently.
“An’ a girl,” smiled Harlan.