Miss Conroy Refuses Shelter.

The storm lifted suddenly, as storms have a way of doing, and a low, squat
ranch-house stood dimly revealed against the bleak expanse of wind-tortured
prairie. Rowdy gave an exultant little whoop and made for the gate, leaned
and swung it open and rode through, dragging Chub after him by main
strength, as usual. When he turned to close the gate after Miss Conroy he
found her standing still in the lane.

"Come on in," he called, with a trace of impatience born of his weariness
and hunger.

"Thank you, no." Miss Conroy's voice was as crisply cold as the wind which
fluttered the Navajo blanket around her face. "I much prefer the blizzard."


For a moment Rowdy found nothing to say; he just stared. Miss Conroy shifted
uneasily in the saddle.

"This is old Bill Brown's place," she explained reluctantly. "He--I'd rather
freeze than go in!"

"Well, I guess that won't be hard to do," he retorted curtly, "if you stay
out much longer."

The dog was growing hysterical over their presence, and Bill Brown himself
came out to see what it was all about. He could see two dim figures at the
gate.