"We were beginning to fear for your safety, Miss Hathaway," he said to her, then wondered why she should laugh. And she did laugh loudly, with a clear, sweet, reverberant ring that echoed through the little valley. Before it had died away her face settled back into its natural quiet. She threw her cowboy's hat into a far corner, and seated herself on a case of canned goods opposite Livingston, to whom she immediately devoted herself.
She was not bold, this slender, well-built girl of the prairies,—no one who knew her could conceive such an idea,—but she moved with a forwardness, a certain freedom of manner that was her own divine right. Whatever she did, whatever she said, appeared right in her—in another less graceful, less charming, less magnetic, it would in many instances seem gross boldness. But with her wonderful, forceful personality whatever she did or said was the embodiment of grace and right.
Many of her acquaintances aped her ways and little peculiarities of speech, to the utter ruination of any originality or fascination they may have themselves possessed, for such originality cannot be imitated.
She leaned nearer to Livingston.
"You should have been with us—we've had a great time! Just think, we got eight coyotes! Isn't that fine for one evening?"
"Indeed," he exclaimed, "I think that remarkable! Your cousin said that something of the kind was keeping you. I take it that you are passionately fond of hunting."
"Yes, it is the greatest sport there is in this country, and where the hunting is good, as it is at home along the Missouri River, there is nothing like it. But up here there is really no game to speak of, though the mountains at one time abounded with it. Even chickens are as hard to find as a needle in a haystack. We found a den of coyotes, seven little ones, and one of the old ones we got with the help of the dogs. You know," she said confidentially, "I shouldn't have delayed this supper for anything less than a den of coyotes."
"There won't be the sign of any kind of game left up here by the time she leaves," remarked Sydney, taking a seat on the ground beside her.
"I heard tell as how she was tryin' to make a clearance," said old Jim McCullen from the entrance.
She flashed him a quick look of surprise. He answered it with a barely perceptible squint, which she understood from years of comradeship to mean that he shared her secret. It meant more than that. He not only shared her secret, but his right hand—his life—was at her disposal, if necessary. Then, in acknowledgment of his silent message she gave him one of her rare, glorious smiles.