``Hettie,'' he said as gently as he could, ``we're still headed west. Somewhere, we'll hit a trail.''

``Somewhere!'' she repeated. ``Maybe in time to make a cross and dig our graves.''

His wide mouth compressed. In a way, he couldn't blame her. He had picked out this pathless trail, instead of the common one, in a moment of romantic fancy, to give them privacy on their honeymoon.

It had been a mistake, but anything would have been a mistake, as it turned out. It wasn't the roughness and crudity and discomfort of the trip that had frightened her. She had hated the whole idea before they started. Actually, she had hated him before she ever saw him. It had been five days too late before he learned that she'd gone through the wedding ceremony in a semitrance of laudanum, administered by her mother.

The bitterness of their wedding night still ripped within him like an open wound. She had jumped away from his shy touch like a cat confronted by a sidewinder. He had left her inviolate, thinking familiarity would gentle her in time. But each mile westward, she had hated him the deeper.

He stared at the dipper, turning it over and over in his wide, calloused hands. ``I suppose,'' he muttered, ``I can sell the outfit for enough to send you home to your folks, once we find a settlement.''

``Don't try to be noble!'' Her laugh was hard. ``They wouldn't have sold me in the first place if there'd been food enough to go around.''