She shook her head.  “Is it—­pretty steep?” she ventured after a moment, and glanced down at the jug.

He looked puzzled at first, but when his own glance followed hers, he understood.  He stared up at her somberly before he let his head drop back upon his arms, so that his face was once more hidden.

“You’ve never been in bell, I suppose,” he told her, and his voice was dull and tired.  After a minute he looked up at her impatiently.  “Is it fun to stand and watch a man—­What do you want, anyway?  It doesn’t matter—­to you.”

“Are you sure?” she retorted sharply.  “And—­suppose it doesn’t.  I have Kate to think of, at least.”

He gave a little laugh that came nearer being a snort.  “Oh, if that’s all, you needn’t worry.  I’m not quite that far gone, thank you!”

“I was thinking of the ranch, and of her ideals, and her blind trust in you, and of the effect on the men,” she explained impatiently.

He was silent a moment.  “I’m thinking of myself!” he told her grimly then.

“And—­don’t you ever—­think of me?” She set her teeth sharply together after the words were out, and watched him, breathing quickly.

Ford sprang up from the bunk and faced her with stern questioning in his eyes, but she only flushed a little under his scrutiny.  Her eyes, he noticed, were clear and steady, and they had in them something of that courage which fears but will not flinch.

“I don’t want to think of you!” he said, lowering his voice unconsciously.  “For the last month I’ve tried mighty hard not to think of you.  And if you want to know why—­I’m married!”

She leaned back against the door and stared up at him with widening pupils.  Ford looked down and struck the jug with his toe.  “That thing,” he said slowly, “I’ve got to fight alone.  I don’t know which is going to come out winner, me or the booze.  I—­don’t—­know.”  He lifted his head and looked at her.  “What did you come in here for?” he asked bluntly.

She caught her breath, but she would not dodge.  Ford loved her for that.  “Dick told me—­and I was—­I wanted to—­well, help.  I thought I might—­sometimes when the climb is too steep, a hand will keep one from—­slipping.”

“What made you want to help?  You don’t even like me.”  His tone was flat and unemotional, but she did not seem able to meet his eyes.  So she looked down at the jug.

“Dick said—­but the jug is full practically.  I don’t understand how—­”

“It isn’t as full as it ought to be; it lacks one swallow.”  He eyed it queerly.  “I wish I knew how much it would lack by dark,” he said.

She threw out an impulsive hand.  “Oh, but you must make up your mind!  You mustn’t temporize like that, or wonder—­or—­”

“This,” he interrupted rather flippantly, “is something little girls can’t understand.  They’d better not try.  This isn’t a woman’s problem, to be solved by argument.  It’s a man’s fight!”