“What you doin’ up here?”

“I started for Millington, over the mountain.  I lost my way.”

“Why didn’t you go by the road?”

“It’s further.”

“That’s a lie!  It ain’t.  And don’t lie to me, or I’ll kill you!”

“Who are you?” she heard herself asking.  “And why are you acting this way with me?”

The man leaned suddenly forward.

“You mean to tell me you don’t know?”

“A lumberjack, maybe, who’s lost his way like myself?”

His expression changed abruptly.

“What you luggin’ this for?” He indicated the revolver.

“For protection.”

“From what?”

“Wild things.”

“There ain’t no wild things in these mountains this time o’ year; they’re snowed up, and you know it.”

“I just felt safer to have it along.”

“To protect you from men-folks, maybe?”

“There are no men in these mountains I’m afraid of!” She made the declaration with pathetic bravado.

His eyes narrowed.

“I think I better kill you,” he decided.  “You’ve seen me; you’ll tell you seen me.  Why shouldn’t I kill you?  You’d only tell.”

“Why?  What have I done to you?” she managed to stammer.  “Why should you object to being seen?”

It was an unfortunate demand.  He sprang up with a snarl.  Pointing the revolver from his hip, he drew back the hammer.

“Don’t!” she shrieked.  “Are you crazy?  Don’t you know how to treat a woman—­in distress?”

“Distress, hell!  You know who I be.  And I don’t care whether you’re a woman or not, I ain’t goin’ to be took—­you understand?”

“Certainly I understand.”

She said it in such a way that he eased the hammer back into place and lowered the gun.  For the moment again she was safe.  In response to her terrible need, some of her latent Yankee courage came now to aid her.  “I don’t see what you’re making all this rumpus about,” she told him in as indifferent a voice as she could command.  “I don’t see why you should want to kill a friend who might help you—­if you’re really in need of help.”

“I want to get to Partridgeville,” he muttered after a moment.

“You’re not far from there.  How long have you been on the road?”

“None of your business.”

“Have you had any food?”

“No.”

“If you’ll put up that gun and let me get off this snowshoe and pack, I’ll share with you some of the food I have.”

“Never you mind what I do with this gun.  Go ahead and fix your foot, and let’s see what you got for grub.”  The man resumed his seat.

She twisted up her tangled hair, replaced her toque and untied the dangling snowshoe.

Outside a tree cracked in the frost.  He started in hair-trigger fright.  Creeping to the window, he peeped cautiously between casing and blanket.  Convinced that it was nothing, he returned to his seat by the table.