t
pleases me. Do you or Gordon MacRae honestly believe I care a snap for
their petty conventions?"

"No, I know you better than that," I responded. "All the same, this is a
pretty rough country for a woman, and if you've made friends among the
people on top, they may come in handy. For that matter," I concluded,
"you won't get a chance to have the cold shoulder turned to you for
associating with MacRae; not for some time, anyway."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, in that answer-me-at-once way I knew
of old.

"MacRae has gotten into a bad hole," I told her plainly. "Major Lessard,
who happens to be the big chief in this neck of the woods, seems to have
developed a sudden grouch against him. There was a hold-up night before
last--in fact, I was the victim. I was separated from a big bunch of
money that belongs to the outfit I'm working for. Mac was with me at the
time. He had to come in here and report it, for it happened in his
district, and the major raked him over the coals in a way that was hard
to stand. You know MacRae, Lyn; it's mighty poor business for any man to
tread on his toes, much less go walking rough-shod all over him. Lessard
went the length of accusing him of being in with these hold-up men,
because he did a little investigating on his own account before coming
in to report. Mac took that pretty hard, and came mighty near making the
major eat his words with gunpowder sauce on the side. So, for having the
nerve to declare himself, he has lost his sergeant's stripes and has
likewise gone to the guardhouse to meditate over the foolishness of
taking issue with his superiors. If you don't see him for the next
thirty days, you'll have the consolation of knowing that he isn't
avoiding you purposely."

It was a rather flippant way to talk, but it was the best I could do
under the circumstances. The last three days hadn't been exactly
favorable to a normal state of mind, or well-considered speech.

But--who was the wise mortal that said: "No man knoweth the mind of a
maid"?--she sat there quite unmoved, her hands resting quietly in her
lap. "We all seem to be more or less under a cloud, Sarge," she said
slowly. "Maybe when dad comes he can furnish a silver lining for it. I
sometimes--what makes you look that way? You look as if you were
thinking it my fault that Gordon is in trouble."

"You're wrong there," I protested, truthfully enough.

"But you have that air," she declared. "And I'm not to blame. If