Whereupon the door of the car opened and out stepped a short, broad man in a long linen coat.

“Come out, Lenore, an’ shake off the dust,” he said, and he assisted a young woman to step out.  She also wore a long linen coat, and a veil besides.  The man removed his coat and threw it into the car.  Then he took off his sombrero to beat the dust off of that.

“Phew!  The Golden Valley never seen dust like this in a million years!...  I’m chokin’ for water.  An’ listen to the car.  She’s boilin’!”

Then, as he stepped toward Kurt, the rancher showed himself to be a well-preserved man of perhaps fifty-five, of powerful form beginning to sag in the broad shoulders, his face bronzed by long exposure to wind and sun.  He had keen gray eyes, and their look was that of a man used to dealing with his kind and well disposed toward them.

“Hello!  Are you young Dorn?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied Kurt, stepping out.

“I’m Anderson, from Ruxton, come to see your dad.  This is my girl Lenore.”

Kurt acknowledged the slight bow from the veiled young woman, and then, hesitating, he added, “Won’t you come in?”

“No, not yet.  I’m chokin’ for air an’ water.  Bring us a drink,” replied Anderson.

Kurt hurried away to get a bucket and tin cup.  As he drew water from the well he was thinking rather vaguely that it was somehow embarrassing—­the fact of Mr. Anderson being accompanied by his daughter.  Kurt was afraid of his father.  But then, what did it matter?  When he returned to the yard he found the rancher sitting in the shade of one of the few apple-trees, and the young lady was standing near, in the act of removing bonnet and veil.  She had thrown the linen coat over the seat of an old wagon-bed that lay near.

“Good water is scarce here, but I’m glad we have some,” said Kurt; then as he set down the bucket and offered a brimming cupful to the girl he saw her face, and his eyes met hers.  He dropped the cup and stared.  Then hurriedly, with flushing face, he bent over to recover and refill it.

“Ex-excuse me.  I’m—­clumsy,” he managed to say, and as he handed the cup to her he averted his gaze.  For more than a year the memory of this very girl had haunted him.  He had seen her twice—­the first time at the close of his one year of college at the University of California, and the second time on the street in Spokane.  In a glance he had recognized the strong, lithe figure, the sunny hair, the rare golden tint of her complexion, the blue eyes, warm and direct.  And he had sustained a shock which momentarily confused him.

“Good water, hey?” dissented Anderson, after drinking a second cup.  “Boy that’s wet, but it ain’t water to drink.  Come down in the foot-hills an’ I’ll show you.  My ranch ’s called ‘Many Waters,’ an’ you can’t keep your feet dry.”

“I wish we had some of it here,” replied Kurt, wistfully, and he waved a hand at the broad, swelling slopes.  The warm breath that blew in from the wheatlands felt dry and smelled dry.