Blake, Miss Blake. I'll make The Hill before morning if
I'm lucky. Less dust and heat by night and the horse has loafed
since morning.... I mean that about coming to my place. Any time.
Good-bye to you."

She smiled a smile as casual in its own way as Sheila's own. Berg, under
the wagon, trotted silently. He looked neither to right nor left. His
wild, deep-set eyes were fastened on the heels of the small horse. He
looked as though he were trotting relentlessly toward some wolfish goal
of satisfied hunger. A little cloud of dust rose up from the wheels and
stood between Sheila and the wagon. She conquered an impulse to run after
it, shut her hand tight, and walked in at the back door of the saloon.

A teamster, with a lean, fatherly face, his mouth veiled by a
shaggy blond mustache, his eyes as blue as larkspur, smiled at her
across the bar.

"Hullo," said he. "How's your pony?"

Sheila had struck up one of her sudden friendships with this man, who
visited the saloon at regular intervals. This question warmed her heart.
The little pony of Jim's giving was dear. She thought of his soft eyes
and snuggling nose almost as often and as fondly as a lover thinks of the
face of his lady.

"Tuck's splendid, Mr. Thatcher," she said, leaning her elbows on the bar
and cupping her chin in her hands. Her face was bright with its tender,
Puckish look. "He's too cute. He can take sugar out of my apron pocket.
And he'll shake hands. I'd just love you to see him. Will you be here
to-morrow afternoon?"

"No, ma'am. I'm pullin' out about sunup. Round the time you tumble into
bed. Got to make The Hill."

"How's your baby?"

A shining smile rewarded her interest in the recent invalid. "Fine and
dandy. You ought to see her walk!"

"Isn't that splendid! And how's the little boy? Is he with you?"

"No, ma'am. I kind o' left him to mind the ranch. He's gettin' to be a
real rancher, that boy. He was sure sorry not to make Hidden Creek this
trip, though. Say, he was set on seein' you. I told him about you."

Sheila's face flamed and her eyes smarted. Gratitude and shame possessed
her. This man, then, did not speak of her as "Hudson's Queen"--not if he
told his boy about her. She turned away to hide the flame and smart. When
she looked back, Sylvester himself stood at Thatcher's elbow. He very
rarely came into the saloon. At sight of him Sheila's heart leaped as
though it had been struck.

"Say, Sheila," he murmured, "I'm celebratin'