"You bet," was the answer, as he swung up into the saddle and moved his horse on.
Margaret turned as the sound of hoofs padding on the dust approached from behind and was met by a salute and bold avaricious eyes above the drooping beak. He reined up beside her, looking down from the height of his saddle at her.
"Miss Harding, isn't it?" he said. "May I ask where you 're goin'?"
There was jocular invitation in his manner of saying it, the gallantry of a man who despises women.
"I 'm going to the farm, there," Margaret answered. The unexpected encounter had made her nervous, and she found herself ill at ease under his regard. "Why?"
"Because I 'll ask you for the pleasure of accompanyin' you so far, if you don't mind," he returned. "I want a look at the happy man you 're goin' to see. Hope you don't object?"
"I can't stop you," replied Margaret. "You will do as you please, of course."
She turned and walked on, careful not to hurry her steps. The trooper rode at her side, and though she did not look up, she felt his eyes resting on her profile as they went.
"Bit slow, livin' out here, Miss Harding," he remarked, after they had gone for a minute or so in silence. "Not what you 've been use to, I imagine. Found yourself rather short of men, didn't you?"
"No," replied Margaret thoughtfully; "no."