Was she not a prisoner?
The shutterless windows, yawning doors, and open gate refuted the suggestion, but the encompassing solitude and trackless waste still held her captive.

Poindexter had told her it was four miles to the shanty; she might walk there.

Why had she given her word that she would remain at the rancho until he returned?
The long day crept monotonously away, and she welcomed the night which shut out the dreary prospect.

But it brought no cessation of the harassing wind without, nor surcease of the nervous irritation its perpetual and even activity wrought upon her.

It haunted her pillow even in her exhausted sleep, and seemed to impatiently beckon her to rise and follow it.