“It is desperately hard to get any information out of Williams,” she told Sanderson; “he simply won’t talk about the work.”

“Meanin’ that he’ll talk rapid enough about other things, eh?” Sanderson returned.  He looked slyly at Mary.

“What other things are there for him to talk about?”

“A man could find a heap of things to talk about—­to a woman.  He might talk about himself—­or the woman,” suggested Sanderson, grinning.

She gave him a knowing look.  “Oh,” she said, reddening.  “Yes,” she added, smiling faintly, “now that you speak of it, I remember he did talk quite a little.  He is a very interesting man.”

“Good-looking too,” said Sanderson; “an’ smart.  He saw the prospects of this thing right off.”

“Didn’t you see them?” she questioned quickly.

“Oh, that,” he said, flushing.  “If the Drifter hadn’t told me mebbe I wouldn’t have seen.”

“You have always been around cattle, I suppose?” she asked.

“Raised with them,” smiled Sanderson.

Thus she directed the conversation to the subject about which she had wanted to inquire—­his past life.  Her questions were clever; they were suggestions to which he could do nothing except to return direct replies.  And she got out of him much of his history, discovering that he had sound moral views, and a philosophy of which the salient principle was the scriptural injunction:  “Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you.”

Upon that principle he had founded his character.  His reputation had grown out of an adamantine adherence to it.  Looking at him now she felt the strength of him, his intense devotion to his ideals; the earnestness of him.

Curiously, she had felt those things during the time she had thought of him as her brother, and had been conscious of the lure of him.  It gave her a queer thrill to stand beside him now, knowing that she had kissed him; that he had had an opportunity to take advantage of the situation, and had not done so.

He had acted the gentleman; he was a gentleman.  That was why she was able to talk with him now.  If he had not treated her as he had treated her his presence at the Double A would have been intolerable.

There was deep respect for women in Sanderson, she knew.  Also, despite his bold, frank glances—­which was merely the manhood of him challenging her and taking note of her charms—­there was a hesitating bashfulness about the man, as though he was not quite certain of the impression he was creating in her mind.

That knowledge pleased Mary; it convinced her of his entire worthiness; it gave her power over him—­and that power thrilled her.

As her brother, he had been an interesting figure, though his manner had repelled her.  And she had been conscious of a subtle pleasure that was not all sisterly when she had been near him.  She knew, now, that the sensation had been instinctive, and she wondered if she could have felt toward her brother as she felt toward this man.