There was an interval of silence and then came a knocking on the door—loud, unmistakable. Some one desired admittance. After the knock came a voice:
“Hello inside!”
“Hello yourself!” Dakota’s voice came with a truculent snap. “What’s up?”
“Lookin’ for a dry place,” came the voice from without. “Mebbe you don’t know it’s wet out here!”
Sheila’s gaze was riveted on Dakota. He arose and noiselessly moved his chair back from the table and she saw a saturnine smile on his face, yet in his eyes there shone a glint of intolerance that mingled oddly with his gravity.
“You alone?” he questioned, his gaze on the door.
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
“Campbellite preacher.”
For the first time since she had been awake Dakota turned and looked at Sheila. The expression of his face puzzled her. “A parson!” he sneered in a low voice. “I reckon we’ll have some praying now.” He took a step forward, hesitated, and looked back at Sheila. “Do you want him in here?”