Out on the road a long column of men went by, headed into the pass. Nan got the sound rather than the sight of them, engrossed as she was with threading a wick into a new lamp. Nor could she help considering Townsite Jackson's thoughtfulness. He had seemed to forget nothing; had, in fact, remembered more items than she would have remembered. And his talk had been very kindly, very shrewd, strongly underscored with sympathy. Nan went out of the bedroom to locate the can of coal oil—labeled by a potato in its spout—and found Neel St. Cloud standing on the porch. Somewhat startled, she straightened to an alert motionlessness.
"Sorry," he said. "Should have given you more warning."
The low afternoon sun struck under his hat and sharpened his smooth, smiling face, He stood there with a sort of negligent ease, yet the slimness of his body and the taper of his shoulder points were such as to suggest a military attitude. For one long moment of doubt she recalled his easy, cynical manner and wondered if he meant to use it on her. It would be natural of him to presume too much. But she was mistaken. He took off his hat, and his yellow head made a slight, courteous bow. He said gently: "If I might step in—"
"If you wish."
He walked through, stood against the wall, surveying the quarters with a swift, estimating glance. "Had no desire to interrupt you," he went on. "Only wished to pay my respects to you as a new neighbor. My place is up beyond the pass—five miles."
"Yes, I've been told that."
His smile broadened. "I supposed you would. I am"—and he paused over the wording of his sentence—"a rather established character. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Nothing, I think," said Nan. Inwardly she was saying: "How like Jamie in his surface manners."
He made a deprecatory gesture with one arm. "I don't want to sound grandfatherly, Miss Avery, but if I were you I'd not worry about things around here. To a stranger a great many ways of ours appear odd. Maybe they are. One thing is pretty definite, though. You can always have the help you need by asking for it. Range people are that way."
"I am afraid," said Nan deliberately, "those people will find me rather unsocial."
St. Cloud's eyes were momentarily keen and exploring. It was, she thought, a reversion to his normal man's curiosity concerning her. But he recovered himself quickly. "Solitude? You'll have no trouble getting that. The valley is full of it. What I wanted to say was that I go up and down this road three or four times a week. Should you ever want anything from town, hail me. Please do."
"Thank you. There seems nothing now."
"There will be," St. Cloud said casually. "You'll always be out of matches, or sugar, or nails. The stores, you know, are not just around the corner—as they are in your town."
"How would you know anything about my town?" asked the girl.
"You haven't the earmarks of this country," said St. Cloud.
She listened for the upswing in his voice that would convey the question. But his politeness covered even that; he had not the air of prying for information. He spoke in a matter-of-fact way. She allowed the silence to settle, and St. Cloud—she thought again that his manners were very alert—put on his hat and moved to the door. "I can promise you," he said, "perfect peace and shelter from my quarter, which is anything lying beyond the notch."
"That," replied Nan, "is about all I ask."
"You will, of course, be unable to escape hearing a great deal of gossip. You'll soon enough know all about us. My suggestion is you strain the information through the fine screen of your own good sense."
He was, she understood, asking that discount for himself. "I have my own scale of values," she told him soberly.
He nodded, showing again a touch of speculation. "Some day, when you are caught up, I might persuade you to visit my place? Smoky Draw is almost a town. Other women are there, you understand."
"Possibly," said Nan.
He let it lie as spoken and went to his horse. Watching him to westward in the direction Dan Bellew previously had gone, she suddenly wondered what his inner reaction to that "possibly" had been. Rather regretfully she wished she had not said it. The man was obviously educated, and his kind read too many meanings into plain speech. Dissatisfied with herself, she filled the lamp and sought out the more immediately needed groceries. Sunset was not far away; the valley was a-riot with a plunging, golden light. Going out the back door to fill her brand-new water bucket, she saw Henry Mitchell swinging up the slopes on his horse, followed by the boy Lorrie on a bareback pony. Mitchell arrived in the yard, put a leg over his saddle.
"Thought I'd drop in and see if I could help."
But his eyes passed through the house and around it; and she knew he looked for Neel St. Cloud. It was apparent he had come here out of a sense of responsibility. Remotely she thought she ought to be grateful, yet an uncontrollable irritability grew stronger. She had traveled three thousand miles to escape such an oppressive, surveillance; she could stand no more of it. Her eyes went sharply to him.
"Did Dan Bellew tell you to watch this house?"
"Why should he?" countered Mitchell.
"Please understand this: I am quite able to take care of myself. All these offers of help are very kind. But I don't need help."
"Sure, sure," said Henry Mitchell soothingly. He refused to be offended; he was like all other men, discounting her clear desires and clinging to the inevitable male assumption that she was a woman and therefore to be watched, to be shielded. Nan felt anger warming her cheeks. Nothing, it appeared, could shake a man's urge to be protective. She meant to say something more definite, but old Henry Mitchell spoke before her:
"A lot of little annoyin' things may come up. Your horse might stray. You might have to lift somethin' heavy. Anything at all in that line. Me or Lorrie will be on tap. Just call us. Lorrie, he's nine and as good as a man."
Lorrie had flattened himself on the broad back of his pony and was watching her with intent, lucent eyes. His face was round and darkened by the sun. All he wore was a cotton shirt and a pair of overalls which hung loosely to his too thin frame; and suddenly her anger went away and left her so certain of this boy's needs. Something very wistful and very shy lay mirrored in his wandering glance.
"He don't see so much of women," said Henry Mitchell, slowly. "Kind of interested in you. No, he don't see near enough of women." The man's voice was softened by a slight regret. "Some things a man ain't much good at."
"You're—"
"His granddad."
"Where is his mother?"
Henry Mitchell met the question with a quick blankness of expression. "His daddy is dead."
The girl felt pushed away from something unfortunate. She said softly, "I'm sorry," and walked toward Lorrie. For a moment she thought he meant to bring his horse about and retreat; he straightened, and one hand dug into the pony's mane.
"Lorrie," said Nan, "we're going to be pretty good friends, aren't we?"
"Sure," said Lorrie dubiously.
She wanted to reach up and smooth the tangled black hair, but she knew better. "Sometime," she went on gently, "you might ride over and show me the trails through the timber. I'd like that."
He was watching her very closely, and it occurred to Nan then that his attitude of reserved and suspended judgment was the same thing she had noticed in Dan