“Does Mr. Dale live here?” inquired the stranger.

“He does.”  A breath from the Boreal Pole was in the two words uttered by Miss Dale.

The stranger’s smile widened.  The keen black eyes began to twinkle.  He made as if to enter, but went no farther than the placing of one foot on the doorsill.

“Is he home?”

“He isn’t.”  Clear and colder.

“I’m shore sorry,” grieved the stranger, the smile waning a trifle.  “I wanted to see him.”

“I supposed as much,” sniffed Miss Dale, uncordially.

“Yes, Miss,” said the stranger, undisturbed.  “When will he be back, if I might ask?”

“To-night—­to-morrow.  I’m not sure.”

“So I see,” nodded the stranger.  “Would it be worth while my waitin’?”

“That depends on what you call worth while.”

“You’re right.  It does.  Standards ain’t always alike, are they.”  He laughed silently, and pulled on his hat.  “And it’s a good thing standards ain’t all alike,” he resumed, chattily.  “Wouldn’t it be a funny old world if they were?”

The smile of him recognized Racey briefly, but it rested upon and caressed the girl.  She shook her shoulders as if she were ridding herself of the touch of hands.

The stranger continued to smile—­and to look as if he expected a reply.  But he did not get it.  Miss Dale stared calmly at him, through him.

Slowly the stranger slid his foot from the doorsill to the doorstep; slowly, very slowly, his keenly twinkling black gaze travelled over the girl from her face to her feet and up again to finally fasten upon and hold as with a tangible grip her angry blue eyes.

“I’m sorry yore pa ain’t here,” he resumed in a drawl.  “I had some business.  It can wait.  I’ll be back.  So long.”

The stranger turned and left them.

From the kitchen window they watched him mount his horse and ford the creek and ride away westward.

“I don’t like that man,” declared Miss Dale, and caught her lower lip between her white teeth.  “I wonder what he wanted?”

“You’ll find out when he comes back.”  Dryly.

“I hope he never comes back.  I never want to see him again.  Do you know him?”

“Not me.  First time I ever saw him was this morning in Farewell.  He was with Lanpher.  When I was coming out here he and Lanpher caught up with me and passed me.”

“He didn’t bring Lanpher here with him anyhow.”

“He didn’t for a fact,” assented Racey Dawson, his eyes following the dwindling figures of the rider and his horse.  “I wonder why?”

“I wonder, too.”  Thus Miss Dale with a gurgling chuckle.

Both laughed.  For Racey’s sole visit to the Dale place had been made in company with Lanpher.  The cause of said visit had been the rustling and butchering of an 88 cow, which Lanpher had ill-advisedly essayed to fasten upon Mr. Dale.  But, due to the interference of Chuck Morgan, a Bar S rider, who later married Jane Dale, Lanpher’s attempt had been unavailing.  It may be said in passing that Lanpher had suffered both physically and mentally because of that visit.  Of course he had neither forgiven Chuck Morgan nor the Bar S for backing up its puncher, which it had done to the limit.