He could not forget her large gray eyes stained dark in fright.
He walked up and down beside the car. What would he do now that he had accidentally saved the girl? He did not know. But it dawned vaguely upon him that the something he had felt coming must have had its inception in this adventure. The whole year he had toiled there, from almost the very day he had turned away in bitter contempt from Helen Pritchard there on the rim of Black Canyon where he had sustained the crucial shock of his life, had been one of inscrutable pangs and dawnings, of a grim stubborn resolve, of fleeting dreamful glimpses of the reward of a newer different life. Could this girl have been dropped out of the clouds to react in some way upon him? Every hour of toil, every bit of suffering, everything that had happened during this eventful year, looked back upon, seemed to have been intended to test him in some inexplicable way. Lynn had to ridicule the fact that inside his cabin was a young girl whom fate had thrown in his way and had given him the good fortune to serve, perhaps to save, her.
“I’m a queer sap,” he thought, gazing across the dark void toward the bold mountains. “Finding out I never knew myself. Sentimental—and full of mush in this modern day! Maybe I’d be well to trail along with this unknown self. It’s a cinch the other side was a flop.”
Presently he went back into the cabin, barring the door behind him. His guest sat in the old rocker before the roaring stove, dressed as he had expected to find her. But Lynn was wholly unprepared for the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
“Well, how you making out?” he asked gayly.
“I’m warm and comfortable—thank you,” she replied gratefully. “And that awful something—here—is leaving me.”
“A hot cup of coffee will help it go,” Lynn said cheerfully and proceeded to lift the steaming pot off the stove. “I don’t batch it here. But I’ve a few camp utensils I found in this shack, and I amuse myself making coffee occasionally. . . . But perhaps you’d prefer a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“That’s lucky. Now that I think of it, I haven’t anything to offer you. . . . Here’s your coffee. It’s hot, so be careful. And here’s sugar. . . . I guess I’ll drink a cup myself. It sure was cold driving out tonight.”
Presently Lynn drew a box up to the stove and seating himself upon it sipped his coffee and watched the red fire through the little barred door. What he wished most at the moment was to look at this girl so strangely thrust upon him and next to that to question her. Nevertheless he refrained from either.
“I’ll go outside presently and let you have my bed,” he said. “I can find a place to sleep. I’ll be right close, in the woodshed in case you want me. Then in the morning we’ll talk over what’s best to do.”
“You’re very good,” she murmured. “What can I do? No clothes—no money!”
“We’ll get the clothes,” Lynn said quickly. “Just you write out what you need—what things, size, you know, and I’ll get someone to go to the store.”
“I’ll pay you back if I can only find a job,” she replied gratefully. “Only I’ll always be afraid to hunt for a job again. Because that is how I fell into this terrible fix.”
“Miss, you needn’t tell me if you’d rather not. Only I—”
“Oh, I must tell you,” she interposed earnestly. “You’re kind—and nice . . . I can trust you. I’m alone—no friends—no relations—no home. You might be the friend I need so dreadfully.”
“I will be,” rejoined Lynn. “As I told you, Lynn Weston is my name. Did you ever hear of it?”
“No. But your face is familiar. I’ve seen it somewhere. Are you in the movies?”
“Good Lord, no. I was just a football player—soon forgotten.”
Apparently the girl had gotten over the worst of her fright by this time for she began, eagerly. “My name is Anne Vandergrift. I’m nearly twenty. I was born in Salem, Illinois. My mother died when I was little. A few years ago my father followed her. But before he died he arranged for a friend of his, Henry Smith, who had gone to Los Angeles, to give me work. I came West. Mr. Smith sent me to business school for six months and then employed me. I lived with his family and was happy. Then came the Depression. It ruined Mr. Smith. He committed suicide. His family had to get out and fare for themselves. So did I. Jobs were easy to get. But I couldn’t keep them—I—I couldn’t—”
“Why not?” Lynn interposed deliberately and turned to look at her. That done he had neither inclination nor power to avert his fascinated gaze.
“Because the men who offered me jobs or tried me out wanted me to—to go out with them. I just couldn’t see it their way. So I kept tramping the streets. I lived on my savings, and they dwindled until I was broke. My landlady kept my few belongings and turned me out. . . . That day on Main Street I found an employment agency with a sign in the window, girls wanted. I went in. A woman told me she had jobs for waitresses in Las Vegas. That the town was booming with the building of Boulder Dam. I said I’d be glad to take any wages and go at once. Then she questioned me sharply, asked about relatives or friends in Los Angeles. When I explained I had none she said she would send me to Las Vegas that day by bus. She’d pay my fare and have someone meet me in Las Vegas. I had only an hour to get ready. I was ready, right then, and so I told her.”
“Well, Anne,” Lynn spoke up dryly as she paused for breath. “Strikes me you were pretty much of a tenderfoot to fall for that line so easily.”
“I was. . . . That woman went with me, put me on a bus. There were several other girls, two that I didn’t care to talk to. And one who couldn’t speak English. Other passengers got on at San Bernardino and Barstow. But I didn’t get acquainted with them. It was after dark when the bus got to Las Vegas. A man with a thin dark face and sharp dark eyes met me as if he knew me and took me to a house and gave me a room upstairs. He said he’d send my supper up to me—that Las Vegas was a wild town and I mustn’t go out. I was too tired and excited even to eat much.”
“Anne, you don’t look like a dumbbell,” Lynn burst out almost heatedly at the girl’s evident innocence. “Why, any kid would have been suspicious of that situation.”
“I thought it was strange, but I had no choice,” she went on mournfully. “I slept like a log. And I was awakened by a hard-faced woman who brought my breakfast. She told me to hurry and eat and said she’d be up again right away to talk about work. I ate my breakfast in bed and was just about to get up and dress when the woman came in again. She locked the door and gathered up my clothes. Then she went out and locked the door. I was horrified. But still I didn’t quite understand. When I began to look around I discovered the only window was a skylight in the ceiling. The walls were thick—the door heavy. Then I realized I was a captive. I wrapped a blanket round me. It seemed a long time before I heard any noise. Then I heard voices outside the door. It was a young man that entered—a well-dressed, smooth-faced chap, good-looking except for his eyes. They were hot, like molten metal. He carried a thin shiny whip in his hand. He talked sweet—I forget his words—tried to get fresh, and when I flung him off he cut me across the leg with the whip. . . . Look here.”
Whereupon the girl, now pale and earnest in her story, dropped the slipper off her right foot and let the blanket fall from her knees. She pulled up the pajamas Lynn had lent her and showed a shapely leg with a cruel red welt marring its white beauty.
Lynn bit his tongue to keep back a
