The girl laughed. “You don’t look like a criminal, Mr. Tompkins!”
“I’m not. I’m really a mammalogist. Now, everybody here is positive that a bug-hunter is crazy, so I’m making it easy all around by playing up to the part. You, however, don’t look like a chicken-raiser.”
“But I am—at least, that’s what I’m going to be. I’ve come from Los Angeles to start a ranch here. Land is cheap; there’s no fog; the climate is ideal, and for a while I can sell all I can raise right here in town.”
“D’you mean it?” asked credulously.
“Of course I do. The prospect looks a whole lot better to me than the prospect of your finding any animals or bugs out on the desert.”
“You don’t know a whole lot about the desert, do you?” he asked, dryly.
“No. Do you?”
“A little.” Tompkins puffed at his pipe rather hard for a moment, frowning at the sunset, then he came to a halt, and turned to the girl with an air of decision.
“See here, Miss Gilman, really I don’t want to intrude into your affairs, but I think that you’re going ahead rather blindly. Are you all alone here in town?”
“Yes.” Her eyes dwelt on his strong, rather harsh features, with questioning scrutiny. “But I’ve lived on ranches, I’ve taught school, I have some money saved up—and really, Mr. Tompkins, I’m able to look out for myself.”