halted at the bend of a trail that led to the rear of the station. He
saw the girl and his whistling ceased.

From his looks he might have been a bandit or a prince. He was a roughly
dressed, fearless-looking man of the hills, youthful, tall, and as
carelessly graceful in the saddle as a fish in its natural clement.

The girl's brown eyes and his blue eyes met. She did not analyze the
perfect symmetry or balance of his features; she only knew his hair and
long moustache were tawny, that his face was bronzed, that his eyes were
bold, frank depths of good humor and fire. He was splendid to look
at--that she instantly conceded. And she looked at him steadily till a
warm flush rose to the pink of her ears, when her glance fell, abashed,
to the pistol that hung on his saddle, and so, by way of the hoofs of his
pinto steed, to the wheel, straight down where she was leaning.

The station-keeper glanced up briefly.

"Hullo, Van," was all he said.

The horseman made no reply. He was still engaged in looking at the girl
when Bostwick half rose, with a tool in hand, and scowled at him silently.

It was only a short exchange of glances that passed between the pair,
nevertheless something akin to a challenge played in the momentary
conflict, as if these men, hurled across the width of a continent to
meet, had been molded by Fate for some antagonistic clash, the essence of
which they felt thus soon with an utter strangeness between them.

Bostwick bent promptly to his labors with the tire. The girl in the