“Then you’re not one of his riders?” Her stark eyes passed over him swiftly.
“No, ma’am.”
“Are we far from the Rocking Chair?”
“A right smart distance. You’ve been traveling, you see, for eight or nine hours.”
It occurred to her that there was something elusive, something not quite frank, about the replies of this young man. Her glance raked him again and swept up the details of his person. One of them that impressed itself upon her mind was the absence of a finger on his right hand. Another was that he was a walking arsenal. This startled her, though she was not yet afraid. She relapsed into silence, to which he seemed willing to consent. Once and again her glance swept him. He looked a tough, weather-beaten Westerner, certainly not a man whom a woman need be afraid to meet alone on the plains, but the oftener she looked the more certain she became that he was not a casual puncher busy at the legitimate work of his craft.
“Do you—live near here?” she asked presently.
“I live under my hat, ma’am,” he told her.
“Sometimes near here, sometimes not so near.”
This told her exactly nothing.
“How far did you say it was to the Rocking Chair?”