She led straight to a camp-site she remembered long before she came
to it; and the charred logs of the fire, the rocks, the tree under
which she had lain--all brought back the emotions she had felt
there. She grew afraid of the twilight, and when night settled down
there were phantoms stalking in the shadows. When Cleve, in his
hurried camp duties, went out of her sight, she wanted to cry out to
him, but had not the voice; and when he was close still she trembled
and was cold. He wrapped blankets round her and held her in his
arms, yet the numb chill and the dark clamp of mind remained with
her. Long she lay awake. The stars were pitiless. When she shut her
eyes the blackness seemed unendurable. She slept, to wake out of
nightmare, and she dared sleep no more. At last the day came.

For Joan that faint trail seemed a broad road, blazoned through the
wild canons and up the rocky fastness and through the thick brakes.
She led on and on and up and down, never at fault, with familiar
landmarks near and far. Cleve hung close to her, and now his call to
her or to the pack-horse took on a keener note. Every rough and wild
mile behind them meant so much. They did not halt at the noon hour.
They did not halt at the next camp-site, still more darkly memorable
to Joan. And sunset found them miles farther on, down on the divide,
at the head of Lost Canon.