instinctively mastering the situation because she was a woman and he
must take care of her. "I reckon I could--" He stopped abruptly and
plucked savagely at a stubborn wing feather.

"Of course! You could ride over and bring back a horse!" She caught
eagerly at his half-spoken offer. "It's a lot of bother for you, but
I--I'll be very much obliged." Her face was bright again.

"You'd be alone here--"

"I'm not the least bit afraid to stay alone. I wouldn't mind that at
all."

Billy hesitated, met a look in her eyes that he did not like to see
there, and yielded. Obviously, from her viewpoint that was the only
thing to do. A cowpuncher who has ridden the range since he was
sixteen should not shirk a night ride in a blizzard, or fear losing
the trail. It was not storming so hard a man might not ride ten
miles--that is, a man like Charming Billy Boyle.

After that he was in great haste to be gone, and would scarcely wait
until Miss Bridger, proudly occupying the position of cook, told him
that the chicken stew was ready. Indeed, he would have gone without
eating it if she had not protested in a way that made Billy foolishly
glad to submit; as it was, he saddled his horse while he waited, and
reached for his sheepskin-lined, "sour-dough" coat before the last
mouthful was fairly swallowed. At the last minute he unbuckled his gun
belt and held it out to her.

"I'll leave you this," he remarked, with an awkward attempt to appear