rived to defend himself from
visitors.

He was a short man, gray-mustached and somber, but his supposed wife
(who dressed in the rudest fashion and covered her head, face, and
shoulders with an old-fashioned gingham sunbonnet) was reported by
Watson, her nearest neighbor, to be much younger than her husband and
comely. "I came on her the other day without that dinged bunnit," said
he, "and she's not so bad-looking, but she's shy. Couldn't lay a hand on
her."

In spite of this report, for a month or two the men of the region,
always alert on the subject of women, manifested but a moderate interest
in the stranger. They hadn't much confidence in Watson's judgment,
anyhow, and besides, the woman carried herself so ungracefully and
dressed so plainly that even the saloon-door loafers cast contemptuous
glances upon her as she hurried by the post-office on her way to the
grocery. In fact, they put the laugh on Watson, and he would have been
buying the drinks for them all had not the postmaster come to his
rescue.

[Illustration: THE WOMAN CARRIED HERSELF SO UNGRACEFULLY AND DRESSED SO
PLAINLY THAT EVEN THE SALOON-DOOR LOAFERS CAST CONTEMPTUOUS GLANCES UPON
HER]

"Ed's right," said he. "She's younger than she looks, and has a right
nice voice."

"Is it true that her letters come addressed in two different names?"
queried one of the men.

"No. Her letters come addressed 'Miss Helen McLaren.' What that means I
can't say. But the old man spoke of her as his daughter."

"I don't take much stock in that daughter's business," said one of the
loafers. "There's a mouse in the meal somewhere."

Thereafter this drab and silent female, by her very wish to be left
alone, became each day a more absorbing topic of conversation. She was
not what she seemed--this was the verdict. As for Kauffman, he was
considered a man who would bear watching, and when finally, being
pressed to it, he volunteered the information that he was in the hills
for his daughter's health, many sneered.

"Came away between two days, I'll bet," said Watson. "And as fer the
woman, why should her mail come under another name from his? Does that
look like she was his daughter?"

"She may be a stepdaughter," suggested the postmaster.

"More likely she's another man's wife," retorted Watson.

During the early autumn Kauffman published the fact that he had
registered a brand, and from time to time those who happened to ride up
the valley brought back a repor