The horses were standing nose to nose. They were greeting each other in silent, equine fashion. Their riders were no less interested in each other.
The mud-brown mare was hands taller than the other. She dwarfed it to the diminutive proportions of an Indian cayuse. The wiry little creature, well-shaped and superbly muscled as it was, became almost ghostly in contrast. It was piebald. And the great splashes of white, which was its predominating color, somehow seemed to merge into its surroundings of snow.
But Stanley Fyles, after one quick glance at the stranger’s general outfit, had no great interest beyond the face of the rider. The moonlight was streaming down upon it. It relentlessly searched it in the recesses of a well-worn buffalo storm collar. And it showed him a pair of big, coal-black, velvet-soft eyes that shone with a queerly sullen expression. But it showed him more than that. He was gazing upon the dusky beauty of a half-breed girl whose youth was unmistakable.
In the brief moments of meeting Fyles’ realization of the girl’s personality was no swifter than his thought. He understood she was waiting for him, the messenger from the police to whom she had written. And he asked himself the meaning of the encounter. Its hour. Its place. And then there was the sex of the stranger.
He wondered what extent of ugliness there could be back there in Buffalo Coulee to drive a young and beautiful girl to brave the cold of the night and a lonesome vigil. And all with a crazy hope of intercepting him.
“You’re waiting for me?” he inquired. His manner was the brusque tone of unquestioned authority. “The ‘red-coated gophers’ have a way of answering quick. What’s back of the letter you wrote?”
Fyles found what he was looking for. He saw the start, the sudden widening of the black eyes. And he knew his instinct had served him well.
“Everything!” The girl’s tone was low. “I bin waitin’ for you.”
Fyles forgot the hour, the cold. Even he forgot his teamster.