“Can’t miss it—­third tent-house on your right, with canvas striped like a barber-pole.  That phonnygraff you hear is at Bill’s.”

“Thank you.”

She went on.

Behind her, the two men stood where she had left them.  They did not move.  The younger man seemed scarcely to breathe.

“Bill’s place!” he gasped then.  “I’ve a notion to tell her.  I can’t believe——­”

“Shucks!” interjected the other.

“But I don’t.  She isn’t that sort.  She looked like a Madonna—­with the heart of her clean gone.  I never saw anything so white an’ so beautiful.  You call me a fool if you want to—­I’m goin’ on to Bill’s!”

He strode ahead, chivalry in his young and palpitating heart.  Quickly the older man was at his side, clutching his arm.

“Come along, you cotton-head!” he cried.  “You ain’t old enough or big enough in this camp to mix in with Bill.  Besides,” he lied, seeing the wavering light in the youth’s eyes, “I know her.  She’s going to the right place.”

At Bill’s place men were holding their breath and staring.  They were not unaccustomed to women.  But such a one as this vision that walked calmly and undisturbed in among them they had never seen.  There were half a dozen lounging there, smoking and listening to the phonograph, which some one now stopped that they might hear every word that was spoken.  The girl’s head was high.  She was beginning to understand that it would have been less embarrassing to have gone hungry and dusty.  But she had come this far, and she was determined to get what she wanted—­if it was to be had.  The colour shone a little more vividly through the pure whiteness of her skin as she faced Bill, leaning over his little counter.  In him she recognized the Brute.  It was blazoned in his face, in the hungry, seeking look of his eyes—­in the heavy pouches and thick crinkles of his neck and cheeks.  For once Bill Quade himself was at a loss.

“I understand that you have rooms for rent,” she said unemotionally.  “May I hire one until the train leaves for Tete Jaune Cache?”

The listeners behind her stiffened and leaned forward.  One of them grinned at Quade.  This gave him the confidence he needed to offset the fearless questioning in the blue eyes.  None of them noticed a newcomer in the door.  Quade stepped from behind his shelter and faced her.

“This way,” he said, and turned to the drawn curtains beyond them.

She followed.  As the curtains closed after them a chuckling laugh broke the silence of the on-looking group.  The newcomer in the doorway emptied the bowl of his pipe, and thrust the pipe into the breast-pocket of his flannel shirt.  He was bareheaded.  His hair was blond, shot a little with gray.  He was perhaps thirty-eight, no taller than the girl herself, slim-waisted, with trim, athletic shoulders.  His eyes, as they rested on the still-fluttering curtains, were a cold and steady gray.  His face was thin and bronzed, his nose a trifle prominent.  He was a man far from handsome, and yet there was something of fascination and strength about him.  He did not belong to the Horde.  Yet he might have been the force behind it, contemptuous of the chuckling group of rough-visaged men, almost arrogant in his posture as he eyed the curtains and waited.