As the song ended, she roused herself out of the dreamy reverie into which she had fallen and, moving forward again, peered through the window. But the light was between her and the singer and she could not see plainly. Retracing her steps, she approached the front entrance and knocked gently on the door. There came a crash of chords, a moment’s silence, then a firm, decided step sounded inside and the door was opened. She caught only the vague impression of a man’s form in the gloom, for the light was hidden from view in the back room; then a pleasant—unmistakably, a gentleman’s voice—with a slightly imperious ring in it said:
“Good night, madam. Is anything the matter? Did you wish to see me?”
“I’m—I’m afraid I’ve lost my way,” she answered. “I’m trying to get back to Mr. Trainor’s ranch. I’ve not been in this district very long and I’m—I suppose I’m what you call ‘a bit green’ as yet at finding my way about on the prairie,” she added merrily.
He laughed at her last words. “So,” he said. “Seems a bit like it. Dave Trainor’s lies about seven miles nor’east of here. You’re riding, of course?”
“Oh, yes,” she said plaintively. “But all the decent horses are away on the spring round-up, and the only one I could get was old Sam, and he’s so fat and lazy and slow. It’s too much like ‘working your passage’ with him. That’s the principal reason I’m out so late. I’d been to see Mrs. Goddard, at the Bow View ranch, and her husband told me of a trail which he said would be shorter than the one I came by. He wanted to ride back with me, but I was full of self-confidence and thought I could make it alone all right. Consequence is—here I am, ‘lost on the bald-headed,’ as they say. Poor old Sam’s pretty nearly played out for a drink and a feed—an’—an’ so am I,” she continued frankly. “I’ve walked an awful long way to ease him, for I’m not exactly what you’d call a feather-weight.”
Her humor was irresistible and infectious. “All right,” he said gaily. “You’ll find this a pretty rough roadhouse, I’m afraid, though. It’s the Mounted Police detachment, and I’m the Sergeant in charge. But—we’ll do what we can. You go on in, please, and make yourself at home. I’ll fix up your horse now, and get you some supper afterwards.”
Ten minutes or so later, he returned from the stable to find his guest sitting on the music stool in the inner room awaiting him. Exclamations of surprised mutual recognition escaped them as they saw each other for the first time in the light.
He beheld the same winsome face and the tall, athletic, majestically proportioned figure of the girl who had spoken to him and admired Johnny, his horse, one day the previous summer, as he was waiting outside Sabbano station while she, for her part, saw the stern, bronzed, scarred face and uniformed figure of the rider with whom she had conversed, and for which lapse she had, incidentally, been so severely censured by her aunt.
Now that he was at leisure to observe her closely he remarked her small, superbly carried head, surmounted with its thick masses of silky, shining, naturally curly, almost blue-black hair, and her face—which, though pleasing, healthy, and happy—could scarcely be called beautiful at first sight, since the cleft chin was too determined, and the mouth, with its humorous upward curl at the corners of the lips, too large and strong. Her brow was broad, low, and white, with thick, level eyebrows that matched the color of her hair. But it was her speaking, eloquent eyes which attracted him the most. They were of the very darkest hazel; one moment sleeping lazily under their long lashes, the next sparkling and snapping like the sunlight on a rippling stream as they reflected the constant lively and changeful play of their owner’s irrepressible emotions. A short Grecian nose, perfect teeth, and a pink-brown complexion that bespoke a love of a fresh air life completed the altogether charming personality of this interesting brunette.
She was attired in a well-worn khaki divided riding-skirt and a plain, white linen blouse, with a red silk scarf loosely knotted around her splendid columnar throat. Her feet—absurdly small for a woman of her generous build—were encased in high-heeled, spurred riding-boots; and as she sat there with an easy, self-possessed grace, a cow-girl’s Stetson hat tilted rakishly on her raven-hued, glossy hair, nonchalantly swinging a quirt in one of her fringed gauntlets, she presented a very alluring and delightful picture indeed. Plain, and almost coarse though her dress was, its simplicity only served to enhance the rounded outlines of her abnormally tall, classical, magnificent figure.