“Some day, I’m coming over The Hill,” said Sheila, less successful with a contraction in her throat.

The woman made a few strides.  Now she was looking shrewdly, close into Sheila’s face.

“You’re a biscuit-shooter at the hotel?”

“No.  I work in the saloon.”

“In the saloon?  Oh, sure.  Barmaid.  I’ve heard of you.”

Here she put a square finger-tip under Sheila’s chin and looked even closer than before.  “Not happy, are you?” she said.  She moved away abruptly.  “Tired of town life.  Been crying.  Well, when you want to pull out, come over to my ranch.  I need a girl.  I’m kind of lonesome winters.  It’s a pretty place if you aren’t looking for street-lamps and talking-machines.  You don’t hear much more than coyotes and the river and the pines and, if you’re looking for high lights, you can sure see the stars ...”

She climbed up to her seat, using the hub of her wheel for a foothold, and springing with surprising agility and strength.

Sheila stepped aside and the horse started instantly.  She made a few hurried steps to keep up.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up into the ruddy eyes that looked down.  “I’ll remember that.  What is your name?”

“Christina Blake, Miss Blake.  I’ll make The Hill before morning if I’m lucky.  Less dust and heat by night and the horse has loafed since morning....  I mean that about coming to my place.  Any time.  Good-bye to you.”

She smiled a smile as casual in its own way as Sheila’s own.  Berg, under the wagon, trotted silently.  He looked neither to right nor left.  His wild, deep-set eyes were fastened on the heels of the small horse.  He looked as though he were trotting relentlessly toward some wolfish goal of satisfied hunger.  A little cloud of dust rose up from the wheels and stood between Sheila and the wagon.  She conquered an impulse to run after it, shut her hand tight, and walked in at the back door of the saloon.

A teamster, with a lean, fatherly face, his mouth veiled by a shaggy blond mustache, his eyes as blue as larkspur, smiled at her across the bar.

“Hullo,” said he.  “How’s your pony?”

Sheila had struck up one of her sudden friendships with this man, who visited the saloon at regular intervals.  This question warmed her heart.  The little pony of Jim’s giving was dear.  She thought of his soft eyes and snuggling nose almost as often and as fondly as a lover thinks of the face of his lady.

“Tuck’s splendid, Mr. Thatcher,” she said, leaning her elbows on the bar and cupping her chin in her hands.  Her face was bright with its tender, Puckish look.  “He’s too cute.  He can take sugar out of my apron pocket.  And he’ll shake hands.  I’d just love you to see him.  Will you be here to-morrow afternoon?”

“No, ma’am.  I’m pullin’ out about sunup.  Round the time you tumble into bed.  Got to make The Hill.”

“How’s your baby?”