"But, they were very close. I couldn't have missed. It took two shots for the last one, but both bullets counted. You did good shooting, too. Your shots were harder—they were farther away. Did all your bullets count?"
Brent laughed aloud from pure joy. He hardly heard her words. The only thing he could clearly comprehend was the fact that there was no hint of anger in the dark eyes, and that the red lips were smiling. "I'm sure I don't know," he managed to reply, "I didn't stop to look. I think very likely I missed one shot."
"Why do you take your cap off?" she asked, and almost instantly she smiled again: "Oh, yes, I know—I have read of it—but, they don't do it here. Put it on please. It is cold."
Brent returned the cap to his head. "I'm glad I
didn't know the other day, how expert you are with your rifle," he laughed, "Or I wouldn't have stayed as long as I did."
The girl regarded him gravely: "You are not angry with me?" she asked.
"Why, no, of course not! Why should I be angry with you? I knew that there was no reason why you should shoot me. And I knew that things would straighten out, somehow. I thought you had mistaken me for someone else, and——"
"I thought you were a hooch-runner," interrupted the girl. "I did not think any white man who is not a hooch-runner, or a policeman, would be way over here, and I could see that you were not in the Mounted."
"No," answered Brent, "I am not in the Mounted, but, how do you know that I am not a hooch-runner?"
"Because, three of our band went to your cabin that very night to buy hooch, and they did not get it. And the next night they went again and took more fox skins, and again they came away empty handed."