he answered slowly, “I reckon that isn’t odd, is it? He’s going to be my neighbor, isn’t he?”
“Oh!” she said with emphasis of mockery which equalled his. “And you are gossiping about your neighbor even before he comes.”
“Like a woman,” he said with a smile.
“An impertinent one,” she retorted.
“Your father,” he said in accents of sarcasm, ignoring the jibe, “seems to think a heap of you – sending you all the way out here alone.”
“I came against his wish; he wanted me to wait and come with him.”
Her defense of her parent seemed to amuse him. He smiled mysteriously. “Then he likes you?”
“Is that strange? He hasn’t any one else – no relative. I am the only one.”
“You’re the only one.” He repeated her words slowly, regarding her narrowly. “And he likes you. I reckon he’d be hurt quite a little if you had fallen in with the sort of man I was going to tell you about.”
“Naturally.” Sheila was tapping with her booted foot on his shadow on the floor and did not look at him.
“It’s a curious thing,” he said slowly, after an interval, “that a man who has got a treasure grows careless of it in time. It’s natural, too. But I reckon fate has something to do with it. Ten chances to one if nothing happens to you your father will consider himself lucky. But suppose you had happened to fall in with a different man than me – we’ll say, for instance, a man who had a grudge against your father – and that man didn’t have that uncommon quality called ‘mercy.’ What then? Ten chances to one your father would say it was fate that had led you to him.”
“I think,” she said scornfully, “that you are talking silly! In the first place, I don’t believe my father thinks that I am a treasure, though he likes me very much. In the second place, if he does think that I am a treasure, he is very much mistaken, for I am not – I am a woman and quite able to take care of myself. You have exhibited a wonderful curiosity over my father and me, and though it has all been mystifying and entertaining, I don’t purpose to talk to you all night.”
“I didn’t waken you,” he mocked.
Sheila swung around on the bunk, her back to him. “You are keeping me awake,” she retorted.
“Well, good night then,” he laughed, “Miss Sheila.”
“Good night, Mr. – Mr. Dakota,” she returned.
Sheila did not hear him again. Her thoughts dwelt for a little time on him and his mysterious manner, then they strayed. They returned presently and she concentrated her attention on the rain; she could hear the soft, steady patter of it on the roof; she listened to it trickling from the eaves and striking the glass in the window above her head. Gradually the soft patter seemed to draw farther away, became faint, and more faint, and finally she heard it no more.
CHAPTER III
CONVERGING TRAILS
It was the barking of a dog that brought Sheila out of a sleep – dreamless this time – into a state of semi-consciousness. It was Dakota’s dog surely, she decided sleepily. She sighed and twisted to a more comfortable position. The effort awakened her and she opened her eyes, her gaze resting immediately on Dakota. He still sat at the table, silent, immovable, as before. But now he was sitting erect, his muscles tensed, his chin thrust out aggressively, his gaze on the door – listening. He seemed to be unaware of Sheila’s presence; the sound that she had made in turning he apparently had not heard.
There was an interval of silence and then came a knocking on the door – loud, unmistakable. Some one desired admittance. After the knock came a voice:
“Hello inside!”
“Hello yourself!” Dakota’s voice came with a truculent snap. “What’s up?”
“Lookin’ for a dry place,” came the voice from without. “Mebbe you don’t know it’s wet out here!”
Sheila’s gaze was riveted on Dakota. He arose and noiselessly moved his chair back from the table and she saw a saturnine smile on his face, yet in his eyes there shone a glint of intolerance that mingled oddly with his gravity.
“You alone?” he questioned, his gaze on the door.
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Campbellite preacher.”
For the first time since she had been awake Dakota turned and looked at Sheila. The expression of his face puzzled her. “A parson!” he sneered in a low voice. “I reckon we’ll have some praying now.” He took a step forward, hesitated, and looked back at Sheila. “Do you want him in here?”
Sheila’s nod brought a whimsical, shallow smile to his face. “Of course you do – you’re lonesome in here.” There was mockery in his voice. He deliberately drew out his two guns, examined them minutely, returned one to his holster, retaining the other in his right hand. With a cold grin at Sheila he snuffed out the candle between a finger and a thumb and strode to the door – Sheila could hear him fumbling at the fastenings. He spoke to the man outside sharply.
“Come in!”
There was a movement; a square of light appeared in the wall of darkness; there came a step on the threshold. Watching, Sheila saw, framed in the open doorway, the dim outlines of a figure – a man.
“Stand right there,” came Dakota’s voice from somewhere in the impenetrable darkness of the interior, and Sheila wondered at the hospitality that greeted a stranger with total darkness and a revolver. “Light a match.”
After a short interval of silence there came the sound of a match scratching on the wall, and a light flared up, showing Sheila the face of a man of sixty, bronzed, bearded, with gentle, quizzical eyes.
The light died down, the man waited. Sheila had forgotten – in her desire to see the face of the visitor – to look for Dakota, but presently she heard his voice:
“I reckon you’re a parson, all right. Close the door.”
The parson obeyed the command. “Light the candle on the table!” came the order from Dakota. “I’m not taking any chances until I get a better look at you.”
Another match flared up and the parson advanced to the table and lighted the candle. He smiled while applying the match to the wick. “Don’t pay to take no chances – on anything,” he agreed. He stood erect, a tall man, rugged and active for his sixty years, and threw off a rain-soaked tarpaulin. Some traces of dampness were visible on his clothing, but in the circumstances he had not fared so badly.
“It’s a new trail to me – I don’t know the country,” he went on. “If I hadn’t seen your light I reckon I’d have been goin’ yet. I was thinkin’ that it was mighty queer that you’d have a light goin’ so – ” He stopped short, seeing Sheila sitting on the bunk. “Shucks, ma’am,” he apologized, “I didn’t know you were there.” His hat came off and dangled in his left hand; with the other he brushed back the hair from his forehead, smiling meanwhile at Sheila.
“Why,
