"Miss Sheila."

"Good night, Mr.--Mr. Dakota," she returned.

Sheila did not hear him again. Her thoughts dwelt for a little time on him
and his mysterious manner, then they strayed. They returned presently and
she concentrated her attention on the rain; she could hear the soft,
steady patter of it on the roof; she listened to it trickling from the
eaves and striking the glass in the window above her head. Gradually the
soft patter seemed to draw farther away, became faint, and more faint, and
finally she heard it no more.

CHAPTER III

CONVERGING TRAILS

It was the barking of a dog that brought Sheila out of a sleep--dreamless
this time--into a state of semi-consciousness. It was Dakota's dog surely,
she decided sleepily. She sighed and twisted to a more comfortable
position. The effort awakened her and she opened her eyes, her gaze
resting immediately on Dakota. He still sat at the table, silent,
immovable, as before. But now he was sitting erect, his muscles tensed,
his chin thrust out aggressively, his gaze on the door--listening. He
seemed to be unaware of Sheila's presence; the sound that she had made in
turning he apparently had not heard.

There was an interval of silence and then came a knocking on the
door--loud, unmistakable. Some one desired admittance. After the knock
came a voice:

"Hello inside!"

"Hello yourself!" Dakota's voice came with a truculent snap. "What's up?"

"Lookin' for a dry place," came the voice from without. "Mebbe you don't
know it's wet out here!"

Sheila's gaze was riveted on Dakota. He arose and noiselessly moved his
chair back from the table and she saw a saturnine smile on his face, yet
in his eyes there shone a glint of intolerance that mingled oddly with his
gravity.

"You alone?" he questioned, his gaze on the door.

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

"Campbellite preacher."

For the first time since she had been awake Dakota turned and looked at
Sheila. The expression of his face puzzled her. "A parson!" he sneered in
a low voice. "I reckon we'll have some praying now." He took a step
forward, hesitated, and looked back at Sheila. "Do you want him in here?"

Sheila's nod brought a whimsical, shallow smile to his face. "Of course
you do--you're lonesome in here." There was mockery in his voice. He
deliberately drew out his two guns, examined them minutely, returned one
to his holster, retaining the other in his right hand. With a cold grin at
Sheila he snuffed