“It may not be any one you know,” Vaughan remarked, and his voice showed his longing; “but it'll be shelter and a warm fire—and supper. Can you appreciate such blessings, Miss Conroy? I can. I've been in the saddle since sunrise; and I was so sure I'd strike the Cross L by dinner-time that I didn't bring a bite to eat. It was a sheep-camp where I stopped, and the grub didn't look good to me, anyway—I've called myself bad names all the afternoon for being more dainty than sensible. But it's all right now, I guess.”
CHAPTER 2. Miss Conroy Refuses Shelter.
The storm lifted suddenly, as storms have a way of doing, and a low, squat ranch-house stood dimly revealed against the bleak expanse of wind-tortured prairie. Rowdy gave an exultant little whoop and made for the gate, leaned and swung it open and rode through, dragging Chub after him by main strength, as usual. When he turned to close the gate after Miss Conroy he found her standing still in the lane.
“Come on in,” he called, with a trace of impatience born of his weariness and hunger.
“Thank you, no.” Miss Conroy's voice was as crisply cold as the wind which fluttered the Navajo blanket around her face. “I much prefer the blizzard.”
For a moment Rowdy found nothing to say; he just stared. Miss Conroy shifted uneasily in the saddle.
“This is old Bill Brown's place,” she explained reluctantly. “He—I'd rather freeze than go in!”
“Well, I guess that won't be hard to do,” he retorted curtly, “if you stay out much longer.”
The dog was growing hysterical over their presence, and Bill Brown himself came out to see what it was all about. He could see two dim figures at the gate.