Suddenly a bronzed and handsome horseman rode up beside her and lifted his hat,—a large sombrero, surmounting a pair of square shoulders that sported a gay serape.
“Good-morning, little miss. Or would you call it afternoon? I had stopped under the cottonwoods to graze my horse, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to accost you. Going to California?”
“No; to Oregon.”
“A God-forsaken country that. Rains thirteen months in every year.”
“Have you ever been there?”
The stranger shook his head. “I’ve had rain enough in England to do me for the rest of my life.”
“A little of the Oregon rains we’ve read about would be a godsend if we could have it now,” said Jean, mopping her perspiring face with the curtain of her sunbonnet, and glancing ruefully at the brazen sky.
“May I ride beside you for a little distance?”
“If we keep in sight of the wagons, sir.”
“You’re not afraid of me, I hope?”