embarrassing to have gone hungry and dusty. But she had come this far, and
she was determined to get what she wanted--if it was to be had. The colour
shone a little more vividly through the pure whiteness of her skin as she
faced Bill, leaning over his little counter. In him she recognized the
Brute. It was blazoned in his face, in the hungry, seeking look of his
eyes--in the heavy pouches and thick crinkles of his neck and cheeks. For
once Bill Quade himself was at a loss.

"I understand that you have rooms for rent," she said unemotionally. "May I
hire one until the train leaves for Tête Jaune Cache?"

The listeners behind her stiffened and leaned forward. One of them grinned
at Quade. This gave him the confidence he needed to offset the fearless
questioning in the blue eyes. None of them noticed a newcomer in the door.
Quade stepped from behind his shelter and faced her.

"This way," he said, and turned to the drawn curtains beyond them.

She followed. As the curtains closed after them a chuckling laugh broke the
silence of the on-looking group. The newcomer in the doorway emptied the
bowl of his pipe, and thrust the pipe into the breast-pocket of his flannel
shirt. He was bareheaded. His hair was blond, shot a little with gray. He
was perhaps thirty-eight, no taller than the girl herself, slim-waisted,
with trim, athletic shoulders. His eyes, as they rested on the
still-fluttering curtains, were a cold and steady gray. His face was thin
and bronzed, his nose a trifle prominent. He was a man far from handsome,
and yet there was something of fascination and strength about him. He did
not belong to the Horde. Yet he might have been the force behind it,
contemptuous of the chuckling group of rough-visaged men, almost arrogant
in his posture as he eyed the curtains and waited.