The man was asking himself stubbornly why this girl, this type of girl, dainty, frank-eyed, clean-hearted as he felt instinctively that she was, was making this trip to that dirty town which straddled the state border line like an evil, venomous toad and sneered in its ugly defiant fashion at the peace officers of two states.  He was trying to see what the reason could be that carried her through this little-travelled country to the house of such a man as not only Buck Thornton but every one in this end of the cattle country knew Henry Pollard to be; trying above all to seek the reason for her making the trip on horse back, alone, over a wild trail, when the stage for Hill’s Corners had left Dry Town so little after her and must reach its journey’s end well ahead of her.

And she, over and over, was asking herself why this man whom she was so certain she had seen twice that day upon the trail behind her, denied that he had been the man who got down to look at his horse’s foot, who later had ridden a limping mount aside into the canon.  For she felt very sure that she had not been mistaken and, therefore, that he was lying to her.  She frowned and glanced over her shoulder.  She was a little afraid of a man who could look at her out of clear eyes as he had looked, and lie to her as she was so confident he had lied.  She knew nothing of him save that this morning he had come to her assistance at a moment of great peril and that he was suspected by some of a certain robbery and assault....

“Are you very tired?”

She started.  He had turned at last and came back to where she sat.

“No, I am not tired.  Why do you ask?”

“There’ll be a moon soon.  We can let the horses rest a bit....  I have ridden mine pretty hard the last few days ... and then after moon-up we can ride on.  There’s another shack where a man and his wife live just a little off the trail and about seven miles further on.  It’ll be better than trying to make Wendell’s place.”

CHAPTER IX

THE DOUBLE THEFT

After that there were no more uncomfortable silences in the Harte cabin.  Thornton found a lamp, lighted it and placed it on the table.  And with the act he seemed to take upon himself the part of host, playing it with a quiet courtesy and gentleness fitting well with the unconscious grace of his lithe body and with the kindliness softening his dark eyes.  He told her of his ranch, of the cowboys working for him, of the cattle they were running, of little incidents of everyday life on the range, seeking to make her forget that in reality they were strangers very unconventionally placed.  And he did not once ask her a direct question about herself or concerning her business.  That she was quick to notice.