“What business was he in?”
“Wholesale hardware.”
He was silent again and presently, hearing him stir, Sheila looked covertly at him. He had turned, his back was toward her, and he was stretched out on the blanket as though, fully satisfied with the result of his questioning, he intended going to sleep. For several minutes Sheila watched him with a growing curiosity. It was like a man to ask all and give nothing. He had questioned her to his complete satisfaction but had told nothing of himself. She was determined to discover something about him.
“Who are you?” she questioned.
“Dakota,” he said shortly.
“Dakota?” she repeated, puzzled. “That isn’t a name; it’s a State—or a Territory.”
“I’m Dakota. Ask anybody.” There was a decided drawl in his voice.
This information was far from being satisfactory, but she supposed it must answer. Still, she persisted. “Where are you from?”
“Dakota.”
That seemed to end it. It had been a short quest and an unsatisfactory one. It was perfectly plain to her that he was some sort of a rancher—at the least a cowboy. It was also plain that he had been a cowboy before coming to this section of the country—probably in Dakota. She was perplexed and vexed and nibbled impatiently at her lips.