had much experience with men, had been able to see
through Langford's mask and knew him for what he was. For the first time
in her life she experienced a sensation of embarrassed guilt over hearing
her name linked with Langford's, and she looked defiantly at Dakota.

"I have not told him," she said. "I won't tell him. I told you that
before--I do not care to undergo the humiliation of hearing my name
mentioned in the same breath with yours. And if you do not already know
it, I want to tell you that David Langford is not my father; my real
father died a long time ago, and Langford is only my stepfather."

A sudden moisture was in her eyes and she did not see Dakota start, did
not observe the queer pallor that spread over his face, failed to detect
the odd light in his eyes. However, she heard his voice--sharp in tone and
filled with genuine astonishment.

"Your stepfather?" He had spurred his pony beside hers and looking up she
saw that his face had suddenly grown stern and grim. "Do you mean that?"
he demanded half angrily. "Why didn't you tell me that before? Why didn't
you tell me when--the night I married you?"

"Would it have made any difference to you?" she said bitterly. "Does it
make any difference now? You have treated me like a savage; you are
treating me like one now. I--I haven't any friends at all," she continued,
her voice breaking slightly, as she suddenly realized her entire
helplessness before the combined evilness of Duncan, her father, and the
man who sat on his pony beside her. A sob shook her, and her hands went to
her face, covering her eyes.

She sat there for a time, shuddering, and watching her closely, Dakota's
face grew slowly pale, and grim, hard lines came into his lips.

"I know what Duncan's friendship amounts to," he said harshly. "But isn't
your stepfather your friend?"

"My friend?" She echoed his words with a hopeless intonation that closed
Dakota's teeth like a vise. "I don't know what has come over him," she
continued, looking up at Dakota, her eyes filled with wonder for the
sympathy which she saw in his face and voice; "he has changed since he
came out here; he is so selfish and heartless."

"What's he been doing? Hurting you?" She did not detect the anger in his
voice, for he had kept it so low that she scarcely heard the words.

"Hurting me? No; he has not done anything to me. Don't you know?" she said
scornfully, certain that he was mocking her again--for how could his
i