he could catch no
further glimpse of her face. A second surprise awaited him. Just as
she seemed about to ride away, she dropped lightly from the horse to
the ground, and he saw how confident in figure she was. As she began
to try her saddle-girths, McCloud attempted a greeting. She could not
ignore his hat, held rather high above his head as he approached, but
she gave him the slightest nod in return--one that made no attempt to
explain why she was there or where she had come from.

"Pardon me," ventured McCloud, "have you lost your way?"

He was immediately conscious that he had said the wrong thing. The
expression of her eyes implied that it was foolish to suppose she was
lost but she only answered, "I saw the smoke and feared the bridge was
on fire."

Something in her voice made him almost sorry he had intervened; if she
stood in need of help of any sort it was not apparent, and her gaze
was confusing. He became conscious that he was at the worst for an
inspection; his face felt streaky with smoke, his hat and shirt had
suffered severely in directing the fire, and his hands were black. He
said to himself in revenge that she was not pretty, despite the fact
that she seemed completely to take away his consequence. He felt,
while she inspected him, like a brakeman.

"I presume Mr. Sinclair is here?" she said presently.

"I am sorry to say he is not."

"He usually has charge of the wrecks, I think. What a dreadful fire!"
she murmured, looking down the track. She stood beside the horse with
one hand resting on her girdle. Around the hand that held the bridle
her quirt lay coiled in the folds of her glove, and, though seemingly
undecided as to what to do, her composure did not lessen. As she
looked at the wreckage, a breath of wind lifted the hair that curled
around her ear. The mountain wind playing on her neck had left it
brown, and above, the pulse of her ride rose red in her cheek. "Was it
a passenger wreck?" She turned abruptly on McCloud to ask the
question. Her eyes were brown, too, he saw, and a doubt assailed him.
Was she pretty?

"Only a freight wreck," he answered.

"I thought if there were passengers hurt I could send help from the
ranch. Were you the conductor?"

"Fortunately not."

"And no one was hurt?"

"Only a tramp. We are burning the wreck to clear the track."

"From the divide it looked like a mountain on fire. I'm sorry Mr.
Sinclair is not here."

"Why, indeed, yes, so am I."

"Bec