not a little amusement.
“Shucks!” he said. “It’s a woman!”
There came a slow movement. In the lifting darkness Sheila saw the man return a pistol to the holster that swung at his right hip. He carelessly threw one leg over the pommel of his saddle and looked at her. She sat very rigid, debating a sudden impulse to urge her pony past him and escape the danger that seemed to threaten. While she watched he shoved the broad brimmed hat back from his forehead. He was not over five feet distant from her; she could feel her pony nuzzling his with an inquisitive muzzle, and she could dimly see the rider’s face. It belonged to a man of probably twenty-eight or thirty; it had regular features, keen, level eyes and a firm mouth. There was a slight smile on his face and somehow the fear that had oppressed Sheila began to take flight. And while she sat awaiting the turn of events his voice again startled her:
“I reckon you’ve stampeded off your range, ma’am?”
A sigh of relief escaped Sheila. The voice was very gentle and friendly.
“I don’t think that I have stampeded – whatever that means,” she returned, reassured now that the stranger gave promise of being none of the dire figures of her imagination; “I am lost merely. You see, I am looking for the Double R ranch.”
“Oh,” he said inexpressively; “the Double R.”
There ensued a short silence and she could not see his face for he had bowed his head a little and the broad brimmed hat intervened.
“Do you know where the Double R ranch is?” There was a slight impatience in her voice.
“Sure,” came his voice. “It’s up the crick a ways.”
“How far?”
“Twenty miles.”
“Oh!” This information was disheartening. Twenty miles! And the rain was coming steadily down; she could feel it soaking through her clothing. A bitter, unreasoning anger against nature, against the circumstances which had conspired to place her in this position; against the man for his apparent lack of interest in her welfare, moved her, though she might have left the man out of it, for certainly he could not be held responsible. Yet his nonchalance, his serenity – something about him – irritated her. Didn’t he know she was getting wet? Why didn’t he offer her shelter? It did not occur to her that perhaps he knew of no shelter. But while her indignation over his inaction grew she saw that he was doing something – fumbling at a bundle that seemed to be strapped to the cantle of his saddle. And then he leaned forward – very close to her – and she saw that he was offering her a tarpaulin.
“Wrap yourself in this,” he directed. “It ain’t pretty, of course, but it’ll keep you from getting drenched. Rain ain’t no respecter of persons.”
She detected a compliment in this but ignored it and placed the tarpaulin around her shoulders. Then it suddenly occurred to her that he was without protection. She hesitated.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I can’t take this. You haven’t anything for yourself.”
A careless laugh reached her. “That’s all right; I don’t need anything.”
There was silence again. He broke it with a question.
“What are you figuring to do now?”
What was she going to do? The prospect of a twenty-mile ride through a strange country in a drenching rain was far from appealing to her. Her hesitation was eloquent.
“I do not know,” she answered, no way of escape from the dilemma presenting itself.
“You can go on, of course,” he said, “and get lost, or hurt – or killed. It’s a bad trail. Or” – he continued, hesitating a little and appearing to speak with an effort – “there’s my shack. You can have that.”
Then he did have a dwelling place. This voluntary information removed another of the fearsome doubts that had beset her. She had been afraid that he might prove to be an irresponsible wanderer, but when a man kept a house it gave to his character a certain recommendation, it suggested stability, more, it indicated honesty.
Of course she would have to accept the shelter of his “shack.” There was no help for it, for it was impossible for her to entertain the idea of riding twenty miles over an unknown trail, through the rain and darkness. Moreover, she was not afraid of the stranger now, for in spite of his easy, serene movements, his quiet composure, his suppressed amusement, Sheila detected a note in his voice which told her that he was deeply concerned over her welfare – even though he seemed to be enjoying her. In any event she could not go forward, for the unknown terrified her and she felt that in accepting the proffered shelter of his “shack” she was choosing the lesser of two dangers. She decided quickly.
“I shall accept – I think. Will you please hurry? I am getting wet in spite of this – this covering.”
Wheeling without a word he proceeded down the trail, following the river. The darkness had abated somewhat, the low-hanging clouds had taken on a grayish-white hue, and the rain was coming down in torrents. Sheila pulled the tarpaulin tighter about her shoulders and clung desperately to the saddle, listening to the whining of the wind through the trees that flanked her, keeping a watchful eye on the tall, swaying, indistinct figure of her guide.
After riding for a quarter of an hour they reached a little clearing near the river and Sheila saw her guide halt his pony and dismount. A squat, black shape loomed out of the darkness near her and, riding closer, she saw a small cabin, of the lean-to type, constructed of adobe bricks. A dog barked in front of her and she heard the stranger speak sharply to it. He silently approached and helped her down from the saddle. Then he led both horses away into the darkness on the other side of the cabin. During his absence she found time to glance about her. It was a desolate place. Did he live here alone?
The silence brought no answer to this question, and while she continued to search out objects in the darkness she saw the stranger reappear around the corner of the cabin and approach the door. He fumbled at it for a moment and threw it open. He disappeared within and an instant later Sheila heard the scratch of a match and saw a feeble glimmer of light shoot out through the doorway. Then the stranger’s voice:
“Come in.”
He had lighted a candle that stood on a table in the center of the room, and in its glaring flicker as she stepped inside Sheila caught her first good view of the stranger’s face. She felt reassured instantly, for it was a good face, with lines denoting strength of character. The drooping mustache did not quite conceal his lips, which were straight and firm. Sheila was a little disturbed over the hard expression in them, however, though she had heard that the men of the West lived rather hazardous lives and she supposed that in time their faces showed it. It was his eyes, though, that gave her a fleeting glimpse of his character. They were blue – a steely, fathomless blue; baffling, mocking; swimming – as she looked into them now – with an expression that she could not attempt to analyze. One thing she saw in them only, – recklessness – and she drew a slow, deep breath.
They were standing very close together. He caught the deep-drawn breath and looked quickly at her, his eyes alight and narrowed with an expression which was a curious mingling of quizzical humor and grim enjoyment. Her own eyes did not waver, though his were boring into hers steadily, as though he were trying to read her thoughts.
“Afraid?” he questioned, with a suggestion of sarcasm in the curl of his lips.
Sheila stiffened, her eyes flashing
