The ground was in dispute, he said—­another man claimed it—­and while the litigation pended he was in charge for the court, to see that neither party received injury.  He spoke adroitly, and it satisfied her to have the proposition resolved into such simplicity.

She had come prepared to spend the night and witness the early morning operation, so the receiver made the most of his opportunity.  He showed her over the workings, explaining the many things that were strange to her.  Not only was he in himself a fascinating figure to any woman, but wherever he went men regarded him deferentially, and nothing affects a woman’s judgment more promptly than this obvious sign of power.  He spent the evening with her, talking of his early days and the things he had done in the West, his story matching the picturesqueness of her canvas-walled quarters with their rough furnishings of skins and blankets.  Being a keen observer as well as a finished raconteur, he had woven a spell of words about the girl, leaving her in a state of tumult and indecision when at last, towards midnight, he retired to his own tent.  She knew to what end all this was working, and yet knew not what her answer would be when the question came which lay behind it all.  At moments she felt the wonderful attraction of the man, and still there was some distrust of him which she could not fathom.  Again her thoughts reverted to Glenister, the impetuous, and she compared the two, so similar in some ways, so utterly opposed in others.

It was when she heard the night shift at their meal that she threw a silken shawl about her head, stepped into the cool night, and picked her way down towards the roar of the creek.  “A breath of air and then to bed,” she thought.  She saw the tall figure of the watchman and made for him.  He seemed oddly interested in her approach, watching her very closely, almost as though alarmed.  It was doubtless because there were so few women out here, or possibly on account of the lateness of the hour.  Away with conventions!  This was the land of instinct and impulse.  She would talk to him.  The man drew his hat more closely about his face and moved off as she came up.  Glenister had been in her thoughts a moment since, and she now noted that here was another with the same great, square shoulders and erect head.  Then she saw with a start that this one was a negro.  He carried a Winchester and seemed to watch her carefully, yet with indecision.

To express her interest and to break the silence, she questioned him, but at the sound of her voice he stepped towards her and spoke roughly.

“What!”

Then he paused, and stammered in a strangely altered and unnatural voice: 

“Yass’m.  I’m the watchman.”