She put her head down into the white blizzard and trudged round the edge of the ridge that divided the two small gulches. Three minutes later she pushed open the door of the cabin and walked in.
A man sitting at a table jumped to his feet with a startled oath. “Goddamighty, who are you?” he demanded.
Vicky was as much taken aback as he. “I thought the cabin was empty,” she explained. “I’m Victoria Lowell, the school teacher at Piodie. I’ve been up to my claim.”
The man’s look was half a scowl and half a leer. He was a big round-shouldered ruffian with long hair and tangled, unkempt beard. There floated in her mind a vague and fugitive recollection of having seen him before somewhere.
“Better dry yorese’f,” he said ungraciously.
From the fireplace a big twisted piñon knot threw out a glow of heat. The girl took off her coat, shook the snow from the wet skirts, and moved forward to absorb the warmth.
Her host pushed a chair toward her with his foot.
She sank into it, worn out. Presently the moist skirts began to steam and the warmth of the fire made her drowsy. She aroused herself to conversation.
“Sorry I had to trouble you. I was ’fraid I couldn’t make it to town.”
“Hell’v a day,” he agreed.