hatever that means," she returned,
reassured now that the stranger gave promise of being none of the dire
figures of her imagination; "I am lost merely. You see, I am looking for
the Double R ranch."

"Oh," he said inexpressively; "the Double R."

There ensued a short silence and she could not see his face for he had
bowed his head a little and the broad brimmed hat intervened.

"Do you know where the Double R ranch is?" There was a slight impatience
in her voice.

"Sure," came his voice. "It's up the crick a ways."

"How far?"

"Twenty miles."

"Oh!" This information was disheartening. Twenty miles! And the rain was
coming steadily down; she could feel it soaking through her clothing. A
bitter, unreasoning anger against nature, against the circumstances which
had conspired to place her in this position; against the man for his
apparent lack of interest in her welfare, moved her, though she might have
left the man out of it, for certainly he could not be held responsible.
Yet his nonchalance, his serenity--something about him--irritated her.
Didn't he know she was getting wet? Why didn't he offer her shelter? It
did not occur to her that perhaps he knew of no shelter. But while her
indignation over his inaction grew she saw that he was doing
something--fumbling at a bundle that seemed to be strapped to the cantle
of his saddle. And then he leaned forward--very close to her--and she saw
that he was offering her a tarpaulin.

"Wrap yourself in this," he directed. "It ain't pretty, of course, but
it'll keep you from getting drenched. Rain ain't no respecter of
persons."

She detected a compliment in this but ignored it and placed the tarpaulin
around her shoulders. Then it suddenly occurred to her that he was without
protection. She hesitated.

"Thank you," she said, "but I can't take this. You haven't anything for
yourself."

A careless laugh reached her. "That's all right; I don't need anything."

There was silence again. He broke it with a question.

"What are you figuring to do now?"

What was she going to do? The prospect of a twenty-mile ride through a
strange country in a drenching rain was far from appealing to her. Her
hesitation was eloquent.

"I do not know," she answered, no way of escape from the dilemma
presenting itself.

"You can go on, of course," he said, "and get lost, or hurt--or killed.
It's a bad trail. Or"--he continued, hesitating a little and appearing to
speak with an effort-