that trickled down the glass, stretching out wearily, listening to the

wind. It was cold and bleak outside and she had much to be thankful for.



She was glad that she had not allowed the mysterious inhabitant of the

cabin to sleep out in his tarpaulin, for the howling of the wind brought

weird thoughts into her mind; she reflected upon her helplessness and it

was extremely satisfying to know that within ten feet of her lay a man

whose two big revolvers--even though she feared them--seemed to insure

protection. It was odd, she told herself, that she should place so much

confidence in Dakota, and her presence in the cabin with him was certainly

a breach of propriety which--were her friends in the East to hear of

it--would arouse much comment--entirely unfavorable to her. Yes, it was

odd, yet considering Dakota, she was not in the least disturbed. So far

his conduct toward her had been that of the perfect gentleman, and in

spite of the recklessness that gleamed in his eyes whenever he looked at

her she was certain that he would continue to be a gentleman.



It was restful to lie and listen to the rain splashing on the roof and

against the window, but sleep, for some unaccountable reason, seemed to

grow farther from her--the recollection of events during the past few

hours left no room in her thoughts for sleep. Turning, after a while, to

seek a more comfortable position, she saw Dakota sitting at the table, on

the side opposite her, watching her intently.



"Can't sleep, eh?" he said, when he saw her looking at him. "Storm bother

you?"



"I think it was the thunder that awakened me," she returned. "Thunder

always does. Evidently it disturbs you too."



"I haven't been asleep," he said in a curt tone.



He continued to watch her with a quiet, appraising gaze. It was evident

that he had been thinking of her when she had turned to look at him. She

flushed with embarrassment over the thought that while she had been asleep

he must have been considering her, and yet, looking closely at him now,

she decided that his expression was frankly impersonal.



He glanced at his watch. "You've been asleep two hours," he said. "I've

been watching you--and envying you."



"Envying me? Why? Are you troubled with insomnia?"



He laughed. "Nothing so serious as that. It's just thoughts."



"Pleasant ones, of course."



"You might call them pleasant. I've been thinking of you."



Sheila found no reply to make to this, but blushed again.



"Thinking of you," repeated Dakota. "Of the chance you took in coming out

here alone--in coming into my shack. We're twenty miles from town

here--twenty miles from the Double R--the nearest ranch. It isn't likely

that a soul will pass here for a month. Suppose----"



"We won't 'suppose,' if you please," said Sheila. Her face had grown

slowly pale, but there was a confident smile on her lips as she looked at

him.



"No?" he said, watching her steadily. "Why? Isn't it quite possible that

you could have fallen in with a sort of man----"



"As it happens, I did not," interrupted Sheila.



"How do you know?"



Sheila's gaze met his unwaveringly. "Because you are the man," she said

slowly.



She thought she saw a glint of pleasure in his eyes, but was not quite

certain, for his expression changed instantly.



"Fate, or Providence--or whatever you are pleased to call the power that

shuffles us flesh and blood mannikins around--has a way of putting us all

in the right places. I expect that's one of the reasons why you didn't

fall in with the sort of man I was going to tell you about," said Dakota.



"I don't see what Fate has to do--" began Sheila, wondering at his serious

tone.



"Odd, isn't it?" he drawled.



"What is odd?"



"That you don't see. But lots of people don't see. They're chucked and

shoved around like men on a chess board, and though they're always

interested they don't usually know what it's all about. Just as well

too--usually."



"I don't see----"



He smiled mysteriously. "Did I say that I expected you to see?" he said.

"There isn't anything personal in this, aside from the fact that I was

trying to show you that some one was foolish in sending you out here

alone. Some day you'll look back on your visit here and then you'll

understand."



He got up and walked to the door, opening it and standing there looking

out into the darkness. Sheila watched him, puzzled by his mysterious

manner, though not in the least afraid of him. Several times while he

stood at the door he turned and looked at her and presently, when a gust

of wind rushed in and Sheila shivered, he abruptly closed the door, barred

it, and strode to the fireplace, throwing a fresh log into it. For a time

he stood silently in front of the fire, his figure casting a long, gaunt

shadow at Sheila's feet, his gaze on her, grim, somber lines in his face.

Presently he cleared his throat.



"How old are you?" he said shortly.



"Twenty-two."



"And you've lived East all your life. Lived well, too, I suppose--plenty

of money, luxuries, happiness?"



He caught her nod and continued, his lips curling a little. "Your father

too, I reckon--has he been happy?"



"I think so."



"That's odd." He had spoken more to himself than to Sheila and he looked

at her with narrowed eyes when she answered.



"What is odd? That my father should be happy--that I should?"



"Odd that anyone who is happy in one place should want to leave that place

and go to another. Maybe the place he went to wouldn't be just right for

him. What makes people want to move around like that?"



"Perhaps you could answer that yourself," suggested Sheila. "I am sure

that you haven't lived here in this part of the country all your life."



"How do you know that?" His gaze was quizzical and mocking.



"I don't know. But you haven't."



"Well," he said, "we'll say I haven't. But I wasn't happy where I came

from and I came here looking for happiness--and something else. That I

didn't find what I was looking for isn't the question--mostly none of us

find the things we're looking for. But if I had been happy where I was I

wouldn't have come here. You say your father has been happy there; that

he's got plenty of money and all that. Then why should he want to live

here?"



"I believe I told you that he is coming here for his health."



His eyes lighted savagely. But Sheila did not catch their expression for

at that moment she was looking at his shadow on the floor. How long, how

grotesque, it seemed, and forbidding--like its owner.



"So he's got everything he wants but his health. What made him lose

that?"



"How should I know?"



"Just lost it, I reckon," said Dakota subtly. "Cares and Worry?"



"I presume. His health has been failing for about ten years."



Sheila was looking straight at Dakota now and she saw his face whiten, his

lips harden. And when he spoke again there was a chill in his voice and a

distinct pause between his words.



"Ten years," he said. "That's a long time, isn't it? A long time for a man

who has been losing his health. And yet----" There was a mirthless smile

on Dakota's face--"ten years is a longer time for a man in good health who

hasn't been happy. Couldn't your father have doctored--gone abroad--to

recover his health? Or was his a mental sickness?"



"Mental, I think. He worried quite a little."



Dakota turned from her, but not quickly enough to conceal the light of

savage joy that flashed suddenly into his eyes.



"Why!" exclaimed Sheila, voicing her surprise at the startling change in

his manner; "that seems to please you!"



"It does." He laughed oddly. "It pleases me to find that I'm to have a

neighbor who is afflicted with the sort of sickness that has been

bothering me for--for a good many years."



There was a silence, during which Sheila yawned and Dakota stood

motionless, looking straight ahead.



"You like your father, I reckon?" came his voice presently, as his gaze

went to her again.



"Of course." She looked up at him in surprise. "Why shouldn't I like

him?"



"Of course you like him. Mostly children like their fathers."



"Children!" She glared scornfully at him. "I am twenty-two! I told you

that before!"



"So you did," he returned, unruffled. "When is he coming out here?"



"In a month--a month from to-day." She regarded him with a sudden, new

interest. "You are betraying a great deal of curiosity," she accused.

"Why?"



"Why," he answered slowly, "I reckon that isn't odd, is it? He's going to

be my neighbor, isn't he?"



"Oh!" she said with emphasis of mockery which equalled his. "And you are

gossiping about your neighbor even before he comes."



"Like a woman," he said with a smile.



"An impertinent one," she retorted.



"Your father," he said in accents of sarcasm, ignoring the jibe, "seems to

think a heap of you--sending you all the way out here alone."



"I came against his wish; he wanted me to wait and come with him."



Her defense of her parent seemed to amuse him. He smiled mysteriously.

"Then he likes you?"



"Is that strange? He hasn't any one else--no relative. I am the only

one."



"You're the only one." He repeated her words slowly, regarding her

narrowly. "And he likes you. I reckon he'd be hurt quite a little if you

had fallen in with the sort of man I was going to tell you about."



"Naturally." Sheila was tapping with her booted foot on his shadow on the

floor and did not look at him.



"It's a curious thing," he said slowly, after an interval, "that a man who

has got a treasure grows careless of it in time. It's natural, too. But I

reckon fate has something to do with it. Ten chances to one if nothing

happens to you your father will consider himself lucky. But suppose you

had happened to fall in with a different man than me--we'll say, for

instance, a man who had a grudge against your father--and that man didn't

have that uncommon quality called 'mercy.' What then? Ten chances to one

your father would say it was fate that had led you to him."



"I think," she said scornfully, "that you are talking silly! In the first

place, I don't believe my father thinks that I am a treasure, though he

likes me very much. In the second place, if he does think that I am a

treasure, he is very much mistaken, for I am not--I am a woman and quite

able to take care of myself. You have exhibited a wonderful curiosity over

my father and me, and though it has all been mystifying and entertaining,

I don't purpose to talk to you all night."



"I didn't waken you," he mocked.



Sheila swung around on the bunk, her back to him. "You are keeping me

awake," she retorted.



"Well, good night then," he laughed, "Miss Sheila."



"Good night, Mr.--Mr. Dakota," she returned.



Sheila did not hear him again. Her thoughts dwelt for a little time on him

and his mysterious manner, then they strayed. They returned presently and

she concentrated her attention on the rain; she could hear the soft,

steady patter of it on the roof; she listened to it trickling from the

eaves and striking the glass in the window above her head. Gradually the

soft patter seemed to draw farther away, became faint, and more faint, and

finally she heard it no more.