azy
prospector. His eye caught the eye of Lucy Dalles, leaning over her
carpeted counter between her rifles, and when he had made camp he
limped along and accosted her.

"Come in and try a string, Uncle," she begged with the little pout she
had found so effective in coercing male humanity into her lair. "An
old desert rat like you oughta hit the bull's-eye every shot."

Filer grinned and stepped up to the counter, eying the girl from under
heavy, fierce eyebrows that looked as if the dust of a thousand trails
had settled in them. Lucy lowered her dark lashes and looked demure.

"B'long on the desert, girlie?" rumbled the deep voice of the old
prospector.

"Sure, Uncle."

"Uh-huh. And how old might ye be, now?"

"Nearly twenty-two."

"Uh-huh--pretty near twenty-two. That's nice. Where's yer paw and
maw?"

"They're both dead," Lucy told him, trying to appear innocent and
unsophisticated as she lifted her glance to his face.

"Maybe now yer paw was a desert prospector," he suggested.

"Uh-huh." Lucy nodded her fluffy head vigorously up and down. This
was another childlike action which she had found pleasing to
men--especially the older men. Of course she was lying like a little
sailor; but "Uncle" seemed interested in her, and business was dull
just then. She would pretend to be all that he seemed to wish her to
be as long as she could successfully follow his conversational leads.

"What do they call you, girlie?" he asked next.

"Lucy."

"Lucy, eh? Lucy what, now?"

"Lucy Dalles."

"Dalles, huh? Dalles!" His weird old eyes, peculiarly tinted from
years of looking into the mirage-draped distances of the desert, were
strangely reminiscent.

"Maybe that ain't your right name, though," he kept on feelingly.

"Maybe not," replied Lucy quite truthfully. After all, she had only
her father's and her mother's word for it. For all she knew she might
be the reincarnation of the Queen of Sheba. "Let's try a shot, Uncle,"
she added, sensing deep water ahead.

Indolently he picked up a .22 rifle, and rang the bell of her most
difficult bull's-eye target eight shots out of ten. He paid her and
seemed in nowise elated over her fulsome praise, designed to keep him
shooting.

He took up his long cane again. "I'll drift up the drag a ways," he
said, "and see what's goin' on. Nothin' but desert owls lived here
when I traveled through last--two years ago. I'll be back. Maybe I'll
want to ast ye