The station-keeper glanced up briefly.

“Hullo, Van,” was all he said.

The horseman made no reply.  He was still engaged in looking at the girl when Bostwick half rose, with a tool in hand, and scowled at him silently.

It was only a short exchange of glances that passed between the pair, nevertheless something akin to a challenge played in the momentary conflict, as if these men, hurled across the width of a continent to meet, had been molded by Fate for some antagonistic clash, the essence of which they felt thus soon with an utter strangeness between them.

Bostwick bent promptly to his labors with the tire.  The girl in the tonneau stepped past her maid and opened the door on the further side of the car.  Bostwick stood up at once.

“I wouldn’t get out, Beth—­I wouldn’t get out,” he said, a little impatiently.  “We’ll be ready to go in five minutes.”

Nevertheless she alighted.

“Don’t hurry on my account,” she answered.  “The day is getting warm.”

The eyes of both Bostwick and the horseman followed her graceful figure as she passed the front of the car and proceeded towards the orchard.  Above the medium height and superbly modeled, she appeared more beautiful now than before.  She had not descended for a change of position, or even to inspect the place.  As a matter of fact she was hoping to secure a profile view of the bold-looking horseman on the pony.  Her opportunity soon arrived.  He spoke to the station proprietor.

“Want to see you for a moment, Dave,” and he rode a little off to a tree.

Dave ceased helping on the tire with marked alacrity and went to the horseman at once.  The two engaged in an earnest conversation, somewhat of which obviously concerned the auto and its passengers, since the lank little host made several ill-concealed gestures in the car’s direction and once turned to look at the girl.

She had halted by the orchard fence from which, as a post of vantage, she was apparently looking over all the place.  Her brown eyes, however, swung repeatedly around to the calico pony and its rider.

Yes, she agreed, the horseman was equal to the scene.  He fitted it all, mountains, sky, the sense of wildness and freedom in the air.  What was he, then?  Undoubtedly a native—­perhaps part Indian—­perhaps——­

There was something sinister, she was certain, in the glance he cast towards the car.  He was armed.  Could it be that he and the station man were road-agents, plotting some act of violence?  They were certainly talking about the machine, or its owner, with exceptional earnestness of purpose.

Bostwick had finished with the tire.

“Come along, Beth, come along!” he called abruptly.

No sooner had she turned to walk to the car than the horseman rode up in her path.  Her heart sank suddenly with misgivings.  She halted as the unknown visitor addressed himself to Bostwick.