"The negro and I--yes; and you haven't the slightest reason to be afraid
of us--we're square."

She looked at him searchingly, and something in Keith's clean-cut face
seemed to bring reassurance, confidence in the man.

"I am not afraid," she answered, coming toward him around the short table.
"Only it is so lonely here, and you startled me, bursting in without
warning. But you look all right, and I am going to believe your story.
What is your name?"

"Keith--Jack Keith."

"A cowman?"

"A little of everything, I reckon," a touch of returning bitterness in the
tone. "A plainsman, who has punched cattle, but my last job was government
scout."

"You look as though you might be more than that," she said slowly.

The man flushed, his lips pressing tightly together. "Well, I--I may have
been," he confessed unwillingly. "I started out all right, but somehow I
reckon I just went adrift. It's a habit in this country."

Apparently those first words of comment had left her lips unthinkingly,
for she made no attempt to reply; merely stood there directly facing him,
her clear eyes gazing frankly into his own. He seemed to actually see her
now for the first time, fairly--a supple, slender figure, simply dressed,
with wonderfully excessive brown eyes, a perfect wealth of dark hair, a