Outside, the dog was barking spasmodically; but Billy, being a product of the cattle industry pure and simple, knew not the way of dogs.  He took it for granted that the Pilgrim was arriving with the grub, though he was too disgusted with his delay to go out and make sure.  Dogs always barked at everything impartially—­when they were not gnawing surreptitiously at bones or snooping in corners for scraps, or planting themselves deliberately upon your clothes.  Even when the noise subsided to throaty growls he failed to recognize the symptoms; he was taking long, rapturous mouthfuls of smoke and gazing dreamily at his coat, for it was his first cigarette since yesterday.

When some one rapped lightly he jumped, although he was not a man who owned unsteady nerves.  It was very unusual, that light tapping.  When any one wanted to come in he always opened the door without further ceremony.  Still, there was no telling what strange freak might impel the Pilgrim—­he who insisted on keeping a dog in a line-camp!—­so Billy recovered himself and called out impatiently:  “Aw, come on in!  Don’t be a plumb fool,” and never moved from his place.

The door opened queerly; slowly, and with a timidity not at all in keeping with the blundering assertiveness of the Pilgrim.  When a young woman showed for a moment against the bleak twilight and then stepped inside, Charming Billy caught at the table for support, and the coat he was holding dropped to the floor.  He did not say a word:  he just stared.

The girl closed the door behind her with something of defiance, that did not in the least impose upon one.  “Good evening,” she said briskly, though even in his chaotic state of mind Billy felt the tremble in her voice.  “It’s rather late for making calls, but—­” She stopped and caught her breath nervously, as if she found it impossible to go on being brisk and at ease.  “I was riding, and my horse slipped and hurt himself so he couldn’t walk, and I saw this cabin from up on the hill over there.  So I came here, because it was so far home—­and I thought—­maybe—­” She looked with big, appealing brown eyes at Billy, who felt himself a brute without in the least knowing why.  “I’m Flora Bridger; you know, my father has taken up a ranch over on Shell Creek, and—­”

“I’m very glad to meet you,” said Charming Billy stammeringly.  “Won’t you sit down?  I—­I wish I’d known company was coming.”  He smiled reassuringly, and then glanced frowningly around the cabin.  Even for a line-camp, he told himself disgustedly, it was “pretty sousy.”  “You must be cold,” he added, seeing her glance toward the stove.  “I’ll have a fire going right away; I’ve been pretty busy and just let things slide.”  He threw the un-smoked half of his cigarette into the ashes and felt not a quiver of regret.  He knew who she was, now; she was the daughter he had heard about, and who belonged to the place where the stove was black and shining and the table had a red cloth with knotted fringe.  It must have been her mother whom he had seen there—­but she had looked very young to be mother of a young lady.