It told the observers that he was young, of some twenty-six or seven, that his face, the first point taken in with lightning swiftness––was different from most faces they had ever seen, that it was open, smiling, easy, that he was straight as a ramrod, indeed, that he rode as if he feared nothing in the earth or the heavens, that he carried no gun, that he wore the peculiar uniform that Tharon had noticed before, and that there was something on his breast, a dark shield of some sort which made them think of Steptoe Service and his disgraced sheriff’s star. This thought brought a frown to Tharon’s brows, and it was there to greet the stranger when he rode up to the step and halted, his smart tan hat in his hand. The morning 88 sun burned warmly down on his dark hair, which was brushed straight back from his forehead in a way unknown in those parts. His dark eyes, slow and deep but somehow merry, took in the pretty picture in the door.
“Miss Last?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” said Tharon promptly and waited.
Every one waited in Lost Valley for a stranger to make known his business. Paula drew back behind her mistress.
The man sat still on his horse and waited, too. The silence became profound. The hens cackling about the barns intruded sharply.
“Well,” he said presently, “I am a stranger, and I came to see you.”
The girl in the doorway felt a hot surge of discomfort flare over her for the first time in her life for such a reason.
There was something in the low voice that implied a lack, accused her of something. She resented it instantly.
“If that is so,” she said slowly, “light.”
The man laughed delightedly, and swung quickly down, dropping his rein. Tharon noticed that. That much was natural. He held his hat against his breast with one hand and came forward with the same quickness, holding out the other. Tharon was not used to shaking hands 89 with strange men. She gave her hand diffidently, because he so evidently expected it, and took it away swiftly.