"Some day, I'm coming over The Hill," said Sheila, less successful with a contraction in her throat.
The woman made a few strides. Now she was looking shrewdly, close into
Sheila's face.
"You're a biscuit-shooter at the hotel?"
"No. I work in the saloon."
"In the saloon? Oh, sure. Barmaid. I've heard of you."
Here she put a square finger-tip under Sheila's chin and looked even closer than before. "Not happy, are you?" she said. She moved away abruptly. "Tired of town life. Been crying. Well, when you want to pull out, come over to my ranch. I need a girl. I'm kind of lonesome winters. It's a pretty place if you aren't looking for street-lamps and talking-machines. You don't hear much more than coyotes and the river and the pines and, if you're looking for high lights, you can sure see the stars …"
She climbed up to her seat, using the hub of her wheel for a foothold, and springing with surprising agility and strength.
Sheila stepped aside and the horse started instantly. She made a few hurried steps to keep up.
"Thank you," she said, looking up into the ruddy eyes that looked down.
"I'll remember that. What is your name?"
"Christina Blake, Miss Blake. I'll make The Hill before morning if
I'm lucky. Less dust and heat by night and the horse has loafed
since morning…. I mean that about coming to my place. Any time.
Good-bye to you."