With two seats, there was barely room for it on the porch.  Then, while he filled the kettle and lighted the burner, she spread the cloth, a fine damask towel supplied also from her baggage.  On the whole it was a rather gay little supper and, considering the limitations of the menu, it bridged a long interval.  Tisdale, who had been accustomed to drink tea black and bitter on a hard trail, but habitually refused it socially, tasted his cup with deliberation.  “Miss Armitage,” he exclaimed, “you can’t delude me.  Whatever this beverage may be, I am sure it is no ordinary tea.”

She was pouring a second cup when his glance fell from her face to her hands.  They were delicately made, artistic, with wilful little thumbs, yet they impressed him with a certain resourcefulness, a strength in reserve.  Suddenly the light from the lantern which he had hung on a nail in the wall above the table, struck an exceedingly large ruby she wore on her left hand.  It glowed blood-red, scintillated, flamed.  He saw the stone was mounted with diamonds in a unique setting of some foreign workmanship, and he told himself it was probably an heirloom; it was too massive, too ornate for a betrothal ring; still he moved uneasily and set the cup down untasted.  His eyes returned to her face, questioning, doubting.  He was like a musician surprised to detect in a beautiful symphony the first false note.

After that the conversation lagged.  It was not cool on the porch.  A broadside of lightning sweeping the cabin showed it stood in a narrow valley walled by precipitous, barren slopes and widening gulfwise towards the Columbia desert.  The pent air seemed surcharged.  It was as though that table was set in a space between running dynamos, and when a stronger flash came, Miss Armitage instinctively grasped her chair, holding herself from contact with an unseen and terrible force.  Once, during an interlude, the silence was broken by a strange, faint cry.

“Did you hear?” she asked breathlessly.  “What was it?”

Tisdale smiled into her troubled eyes.  “Why, just a cougar; lonesome, I guess, and calling his mate.  But it’s all right.  Sounds carry in these mountain gorges, and his cry was picked up by some cross wind miles from here.  Look at those dogs!  They wouldn’t stay curled up there on the ground asleep, too indifferent to prick up an ear, if a cougar, or even a coyote, were near.”

Still she was not wholly reassured.  She leaned forward, listening, trying to fathom the darkness with a lurking terror in her eyes.  At last, when Tisdale rose to say good night, she, too, left her chair.  She laid her hand on the edge of the table as though that might steady her voice.  “Are you going to the stable?” she asked.  “Did you find a possible bed?”

Hollis laughed.  “You needn’t trouble about me.  I am the sort of fellow to find the soft side of a plank.  Yes, it’s true.  There have been times when I’ve slept luxuriously on a board, with just my coat rolled up for a pillow.”