"Cabin on Bull Creek," he answered. "Better get off your footwear."
While she did this her mind woke to activity. Why had he brought her here? They had no food. How would they live if a blizzard blew up and snowed them in? And even if they had supplies, how could she live alone for days with this man in a cabin eight by ten?
As though he guessed what was in her mind, he answered plausibly enough one of the questions.
"No chance to reach Faraway. Too stormy. It was neck or nothing. Had to take what we could get."
"What'll we do if—if there's a blizzard?" she asked timidly.
"Sit tight."
"Without food?"
"If it lasts too long, I'll have to wait for a lull and make a try for Faraway. No use worrying. We can't help what's coming. Got to face the music."
Her eyes swept the empty cabin. No bed. No table. One home-made three-legged stool. A battered kettle. It was an uninviting prospect, even if she had not had to face possible starvation while she was caged with a stranger who might any minute develop wolfish hunger for her as he had done only forty-eight hours before.
He did not look at her steadily. His gaze was in the red glow of the fire a good deal. She talked, and he answered in monosyllables. When he looked at her, his eyes glowed with the hot red light reflected from the fire, Live coals seemed to burn in them.