Here were luxury and art as he had not before seen them on the prairie. Here was more than temporary makeshift. Here, he read, was a woman determined to make life out there, sixty miles from the nearest post office, railway station, and store, independent of its isolation and inconveniences.
He spied the open door to the kitchen and passed through, gathering from the array of tin boxes that his host and hostess were more than temporarily absent. It made him uncomfortable. His mind refused to grasp the full significance of the situation in which he found himself.
He was wondering vaguely what to do, when the outer door burst violently open, and he started like a thief caught in the act. Dakota Fraley was standing in the doorway, peering about with an evil frown. Through the kitchen doorway he caught sight of Stamford and strode quickly across the sitting-room.
"What you doing here?"
Stamford's attempt at propitiation was a wan smile; his heart was pattering uncomfortably.
"Just as you entered, Dakota, I was wondering the same thing. Mr. and Mrs. Aikens are not at home, I take it."
"And won't be for a week, maybe," barked Dakota, standing with legs wide, his thumbs caught in his belt.
"I gathered that from the lay-out."
"Tell 'em you was coming?"
"No. I knew the rule of the prairie."