stride and the grasp of strong brown hands on a rifle. It had an
effect on Jean totally inexplicable to him, both in the strange warmth
that stole over him and in the utterance he could not hold back.

"Girl, we're strangers, but what of that? We've met, an' I tell you
it means somethin' to me. I've known girls for months an' never felt
this way. I don't know who you are an' I don't care. You betrayed a
good deal to me. You're not happy. You're lonely. An' if I didn't
want to see you again for my own sake I would for yours. Some things
you said I'll not forget soon. I've got a sister, an' I know you have
no brother. An' I reckon . . ."

At this juncture Jean in his earnestness and quite without thought
grasped her hand. The contact checked the flow of his speech and
suddenly made him aghast at his temerity. But the girl did not make
any effort to withdraw it. So Jean, inhaling a deep breath and trying
to see through his bewilderment, held on bravely. He imagined he felt
a faint, warm, returning pressure. She was young, she was friendless,
she was human. By this hand in his Jean felt more than ever the
loneliness of her. Then, just as he was about to speak again,
she pulled her hand free.

"Heah's the Rim," she said, in her quaint Southern drawl.
"An' there's Y'ur Tonto Basin."

Jean had been intent only upon the girl. He had kept step beside her
without taking note of what was ahead of him. At her words he looked
up expectantly, to be struck mute.

He felt a sheer force, a downward drawing of an immense abyss beneath him.