Notwithstanding this frankness, they shook hands for the night; Teresa nestling like a rabbit in a hollow by the side of the camp-fire; Low with his feet towards it, Indian-wise, and his head and shoulders pillowed on his haversack, only half distinguishable in the darkness beyond.
With such trivial details three uneventful days slipped by.

Their retreat was undisturbed, nor could Low detect, by the least evidence to his acute perceptive faculties, that any intruding feet had since crossed the belt of shade.

The echoes of passing events at Indian Spring had recorded the escape of Teresa as occurring at a remote and purely imaginative distance, and her probable direction the county of Yolo.
"Can you remember," he one day asked her, "what time it was when you cut the _riata_ and got away ?" Teresa pressed her hands upon her eyes and temples.
"About three, I reckon." "And you were here at seven; you could have covered some ground in four hours ?" "Perhaps--I don't know," she said, her voice taking up its old quality again.

"Don't ask me--I ran all the way." Her face was quite pale as she removed her hands from her eyes, and her breath came as quickly as if she had just finished that race for life.
"Then you think I am safe here ?" she added, after a pause.
"Perfectly--until they find you are _not_ in Yolo.

Then they'll look here.