stepping softly across the hills and the sandy plains,
carrying her full-lighted lantern that painted black shadows beside every
rock and bush and cut-bank.

With the deepening of the shadows and the rising drone of night sounds
and the whispering of the breeze which was all that was left of the wind,
the man came riding cautiously up through a draw to the willow growth
just below Sinkhole watering place. He tied his horse there and went on
afoot, stepping on rocks and grass tufts and gravelly spots as easily
as though he had practiced that mode of travel.

Sinkhole cabin was dark and quiet and lonesome, but still he waited for
awhile in the shadow and watched the place before he ventured forth. He
did not go at once to the cabin, but always treading carefully where
imprints would be lightest, he made a further inspection of the corral.
The wind had done its work there, and hoofprints were practically
obliterated. Satisfied, he returned to the cabin and sat down on the
bench beside the door, where he could watch the trail while he waited.

The telephone rang. The man untied the door, went in, and answered it
hoarsely. Everything was all right, he reported. He had ridden the fence
and tightened one or two loose wires. Yes, the water was holding out all
right, and the horses came to water every night about sundown, or else
early in the morning before the flies got too bad. His cold was better,
and he didn't need a thing that he knew of. And good-bye, Mr. Selmer.

He went out, very well satisfied with himself; re-tied the door carefully
with Johnny's own peculiar kind of hitch, stooped and felt the
hard-packed earth to make sure he had not inadvertently dropped a
cigarette butt that might possibly betray him, and rolled a fresh smoke
before leaving for home. He had just lighted it and was moving away
toward the creek when the telephone jingled a second summons. He would
have to answer it, of course. Old Sudden knew he couldn't be far away,
and would ring until he did answer. He unfastened the door again, cursing
to himself and wondering if the Rolling R people were in the habit of
calling Johnny Jewel every ten minutes or so. He stumbled over a box that
he had missed before, swore, and called a gruff hello.

"Oh, hello, cowboy!" Unmistakably feminine, that voice; unmistakably
provocative, too--subdued, demure, on guard, as though it were ready to
adopt any one of several tones when it spoke again.

"Oh--er--hello! Th