The girl dismounted, and, shortly after, “Lord” Bill rejoined her.

“Well?” she asked, her questioning eyes turned in the direction of the cave.

“He’s snug enough,” Bill replied quietly, glancing at his watch.  He looked up at the chilly sky, then he seated himself on the edge of a boulder which reposed beside the entrance to the stable.  “We’ve just got two hours and a half before dark,” he added slowly.  “That means an hour in which to talk.”  Then he quietly prepared to roll a cigarette.  “Now, Jacky, let’s have your yarn first; after that you shall hear mine.”

He leisurely proceeded to pick over the tobacco before rolling it in the paper.  He was usually particular about his smoke.  He centered his attention upon the matter now, purposely, so as to give his companion a chance to tell her story freely.  He anticipated that what she had to tell would affect her nearly.  But his surmise of the direction in which she would be affected proved totally incorrect.  Her first words told him this.

She hesitated only for the fraction of a second, then she plunged into her story with a directness which was always hers.

“This is Bad Man’s Hollow—­he—­he was my half-brother.”

So the stories of the gossips were not true.  Bill gave a comprehensive nod, but offered no comment.  Her statement appeared to him to need none.  It explained itself; she was speaking of Peter Retief.

“Mother was a widow when she married father—­widow with one son.  Mother was a half-breed.”

An impressive silence ensued.  For a moment a black shadow swept across the valley.  It was a dense flight of geese winging their way back to the north, as the warm sun melted the snow and furnished them with well-watered feeding-grounds.  The frogs were chirruping loudly down at the edge of the stream which trickled its way ever southwards.  She went on.

“Mother and Peter settled at Foss River at different times.  They never hit it off.  No one knew that there was any relationship between them up at the camp.  Mother lived in her own shack.  Peter located himself elsewhere.  Guess it’s only five years since I learned these things.  Peter was fifteen years older than I. I take it they made him ‘bad’ from the start.  Poor Peter!—­still, he was my half-brother.”

She conveyed a world of explanation in her last sentence.  There was a tender, far-away look in her great, sorrowful eyes as she told her jerky story.  “Lord” Bill allowed himself a side-long glance in her direction, then he turned his eyes towards the south end of the valley and something very like a sigh escaped him.  She had struck a sympathetic chord in his heart.  He longed to comfort her.