horses were nothing to inspire robbery. It must be that there was
peril to Roberts and to her because she was a girl, caught out in
the wilds, easy prey for beasts of evil men. She had heard of such
things happening. Still, she could not believe it possible for her.
Roberts could protect her. Then this amiable, well-spoken Kells, he
was no Western rough--he spoke like an educated man; surely he would
not harm her. So her mind revolved round fears, conjectures,
possibilities; she could not find her wits. She could not think how
to meet the situation, even had she divined what the situation was
to be.

While she sat there in the shade of a cedar the men busied
themselves with camp duties. None of them appeared to pay any
attention to Joan. They talked while they worked, as any other group
of campers might have talked, and jested and laughed. Kells made a
fire, and carried water, then broke cedar boughs for later camp-fire
use; one of the strangers whom they called Bill hobbled the horses;
the other unrolled the pack, spread a tarpaulin, and emptied the
greasy sacks; Roberts made biscuit dough for the oven.

The sun sank red and a ruddy twilight fell. It soon passed. Darkness
had about set in when Roberts came over to Joan, carrying bread,
coffee, and venison.

"Here's your supper, Joan," he called, quite loud and cheerily, and
then he whispered: "Mebbe it ain't so bad. They-all seem friendly.
But I'm scared, Joan. If you jest wasn't so dam' handsome, or if
only he hadn't seen you!"

"Can't we slip off in the dark?" she whispered in return.