“I didn’t waken you,” he mocked.
Sheila swung around on the bunk, her back to him. “You are keeping me awake,” she retorted.
“Well, good night then,” he laughed, “Miss Sheila.”
“Good night, Mr.—Mr. Dakota,” she returned.
Sheila did not hear him again. Her thoughts dwelt for a little time on him and his mysterious manner, then they strayed. They returned presently and she concentrated her attention on the rain; she could hear the soft, steady patter of it on the roof; she listened to it trickling from the eaves and striking the glass in the window above her head. Gradually the soft patter seemed to draw farther away, became faint, and more faint, and finally she heard it no more.
CHAPTER III
CONVERGING TRAILS
It was the barking of a dog that brought Sheila out of a sleep—dreamless this time—into a state of semi-consciousness. It was Dakota’s dog surely, she decided sleepily. She sighed and twisted to a more comfortable position. The effort awakened her and she opened her eyes, her gaze resting immediately on Dakota. He still sat at the table, silent, immovable, as before. But now he was sitting erect, his muscles tensed, his chin thrust out aggressively, his gaze on the door—listening. He seemed to be unaware of Sheila’s presence; the sound that she had made in turning he apparently had not heard.