Patty laughed, and as Vil Holland looked into her face he saw that her eyes held dancing lights. "I'm not going back East," she said. "I've learned to love—the hill country. I have learned that—perhaps—there is more here for me than—than even daddy's mine."
Vil Holland shook his head. "There's nothin' for you in the hills," he repeated, slowly, and abruptly extended his hand. "I'm glad for your sake your luck changed, Miss Sinclair. I hope the gold you take out of there will bring you happiness. You've earnt it—every cent of it, an' you've got it, an' now, as far as the hill country goes—the books are closed. Good-night, I must be goin', now."
Abruptly as he had offered his hand, he withdrew it, and turning, stepped through the door, mounted his horse, and rode out into the night.
CHAPTER XIX
THE RACE FOR THE REGISTER
Beside the little table Patty Sinclair listened to the sound of hoofs splashing through the shallows of the creek and thudding dully upon the floor of the valley beyond. When the sounds told her that the horseman had disappeared into the timber, she walked slowly to the door, and leaning her arm against the jamb, stared for a long time into the black sweep of woods that concealed the trail that led upward to the notch in the hills, just discernible against the sky where the stars showed through the last faint blush of after-glow in winking points of gold.
"Nothing here for me," she repeated dully. "Nothing but trees, and hills—and gold. He loves me," she laughed bitterly. "And yet, between me, and his jug, he chose—the jug." She closed the door, slipped the bar into place, thrust the photographs and map into her pocket, and threw herself face downward upon the bunk. And, in the edge of the timber, Vil Holland turned his horse slowly about and headed him up the ravine. At the notch in the hills he slipped to the ground and, throwing an arm across the saddle, removed his Stetson and let the night wind ripple his hair. Standing alone in the night with his soul-hurt, he gazed far downward where a tiny square of yellow light marked the window of the cabin.
"It's hell—the way things work out," he said, thoughtfully. "Yes, sir, Buck, it sure is hell. If Len had told me a week ago about her havin' to teach school, or even yesterday—she might have—But, now—she's rich. An' that cracked rock claim turnin' out to be hers—" He swung abruptly into the saddle and headed the buckskin for camp.