“No.  Why?”

“I wonder if you know anything about the place?”

“What I’ve heard.  What Mr. Templeton tried to tell me.”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t know that I blame him for trying to turn you into another trail.  He must have told you,” and he was watching her very keenly, “that the stage runs there from Dry Town?”

“Yes.  But I chose to ride on horseback.  Is there anything strange in that?”

“Oh, no!” he said briefly.  “Just a nice little ride!”

“I have ridden long trails before.”

Again for a little while she watched him with intent, eager eyes; he was silent, frowning into his own cup of coffee.

“Dead Man’s Alley,” he volunteered abruptly, “is the worst little bad town I ever saw.  And I’ve camped in two or three that a man wouldn’t call just exactly healthy on the dark of the moon.  I guess Mr. Templeton must have told you, but unless it’s happened in the last month, there isn’t a man in that town who has his wife or daughters there.  If I were you,” and he lifted his cup to his lips as a sign that he had said his say, “I’d rope my cow pony and hit the home trail for Dry Town!”

“Thank you,” she said as quietly as he had spoken.  “But really Mr. Templeton gave me enough advice to last me a year, I think.  I have made up my mind to go on to ... to Dead Man’s Alley, as you call it.”

“Well,” he grinned back at her as though the discussion had been of no moment and now was quite satisfactorily ended, “I ought to be glad, oughtn’t I?  Since my trail runs that way, and since the Poison Hole ranch is only twenty miles out from the Corners.  Maybe you’ll let me ride over and see you?”

“Of course.  I’ll be glad to have you.  That is,” and her smile came back, a very teasing smile, too, “if you’ll care to call at the house where I’m going to stop?  I’m going to stay with my uncle.”

“The chances are that I don’t know him.  I don’t know half a dozen folks in the town.  What’s his name?”

“His name,” she told him demurely, “is Henry Pollard.  I think you know him.”

He flushed a little as she had hoped that he would.  He remembered.  He knew that he had spoken this morning at the bank of Henry Pollard from whom he was buying his outfit, knew that he must have called him, as he always did when he spoke of him, “Rattlesnake” Pollard.  And Henry Pollard was her uncle!

“I didn’t know,” he said slowly and a little lamely, “that he was your uncle.  But,” he added cheerfully, his assurance coming back to him, “you can’t help that, you know.  I don’t blame you for it.  Yes, I’ll ride over from the ranch.  It’s good of you to let me.”

They finished the meal in a rather thoughtful silence.  Thornton made a cigarette and went to the door to look for the upclimbing moon; the girl carried her chair to the fireplace and sat down, her hands in her lap, her eyes staring into the coals.