"He is a rancher?" asked Nan.
"Has a ranch. Beyond the pass, in Smoky Draw."
"Those were his men?"
"Yes."
The reticence of the answers warned her. She thought quietly, "He hates the man, but won't speak." Thereafter silence covered the dusty miles one by one. Heat waves made quivering layers against the earth, and the dry grasses sent up a scorched smell. She could see now the jointure of Squaw and Buck ridges, the little notch of the pass, and the darkly rising peaks beyond. The road took an upward direction, wound along the irregular footing of the slopes. Turning a point of rock, Bellew drew up in front of a small, paintless house. A man walked from behind it—loose of frame and gaunt. He was rather old, she saw, but he had that weathered vigor of an out-of-doors hand worker. "This," said Bellew cheerfully, "is Henry Mitchell: Henry, you'll have a neighbor. Miss Avery here is going to live in Tanner's place."
She liked Henry Mitchell at once, just from the way he lifted and dropped his beaten hat; his eyes were faded, very honest. All, he said was, "Fine, fine." But it was deeply encouraging.
"Sack of flour for you," said Bellew.
Henry Mitchell went to the tailgate, found his flour and dragged it out. Bellew sat idle a moment. "What's news?"
"Lorrie," drawled Mitchell, full of pride, "shot a deer all by himself."
Bellew chuckled. "The kid's a regular Sioux," he mused, looking around the yard.
"You won't find him," said Mitchell. "He saw you comin'. Ducked out when he observed the lady. He's shy, ma'm. By the way, Dan, I got some advice this mornin'."
Dan looked more closely at Mitchell. "Who from?"
"The doctor," said Mitchell enigmatically. "It was his reckonin' I ought not to travel too much. Specially up in the hills."
They were, Nan knew, speaking in code. Dan's face settled to a thoughtful severity. After a while he said: "Better be careful, then, Henry. You've Lorrie to look after."
"Yeah," observed Henry Mitchell. "Wait a minute," he added and walked behind the house. A little later he returned with a can of water which he placed securely in the wagon. Dan nodded, urging the horses on again. A hundred yards away Nan saw a boyish form rush from one high boulder and disappear behind another. Head and eyes came cautiously around it; a shrill whoop sailed along the windless air.
Bellew grinned. "That's Lorrie," he said and let the team set its own pace up and around a steeper grade. Trees thickened on the ridge's side, and the ground buckled into several parallel, coulees. Looking behind, she saw the valley sweep away from her to a misty horizon; and when she again straightened frontward, she found the end of the journey. Another house—no different from Mitchell's—set a few rods off the road, without shelter, without grace. Bellew drove abreast a small porch, kicked on the brake, and got down. Rather stiffly Nan followed suit—uncertain, once more feeling a let-down of spirit.
She had expected little, nor was this any better than her expectations. Crossing the porch, she entered the place and stood aside while Bellew packed her belongings through. There were three rooms—front room, bedroom, kitchen—and these only separated by the scantiest sort of rough-board partitioning which somebody had started to cover with old newspapers. The outer walls were warped, none too windproof; and looking up to an unsealed attic, she saw points of light stabbing through the shingles. A few pieces of improvised furniture remained, an old pair of overalls hung on a nail, the kitchen held a small stove. It was, she thought, nothing better than a primitive shelter—and she unsuccessfully tried to imagine the kind of people who had previously lived in it. Comfort, apparently, was a luxury here. What were the necessities?
Bellew stood before her, his hat off and the black hair aglisten with sweat. "You're moved in," he told her. "That can of water is sitting beside the pump. It's to prime with. Never let yourself get entirely out of water. Your horse is in the barn. Piece of a fenced pasture you can run him in. He won't drift away, and he'll stand on dropped reins. Ever saddle a horse?"
"Yes—I've ridden before."
He loitered, looking down with that old air of judging her. "At night you'll hear a lot of noises. Don't worry. Country's full of packrats. Pay no attention. But as a matter of habit, lock your doors."
"Against what?"
He shrugged his big shoulders. "Against possibilities. There's a new .38 in that mess of supplies. Don't ride anywhere without it. Don't go walking through sage without boots on. If you put your bedding out to air, shake it before you bring it in again. That's for ticks which we have in summer and fall. Should you hear travel on the road after dark, don't display too much curiosity." Paused, he showed a faint puzzlement. Nan, knowing he wondered about her luck in such surroundings, was quick to speak up:
"I can take care of myself."
"One thing more," said Dan. "Don't ride beyond the pass. Not at any time."
"Otherwise," asked Nan, deceptively calm, "I may do as I please?"
"Perhaps I have offered too much advice," said Bellew quietly and went out. Presently going to the door, she saw him driving away with the empty wagon—not down the road but straight west over a roll of land. He was soon out of sight, leaving her with the uncomfortable thought that she had made no effort to thank him. As before, he had relieved her of the need of doing something she didn't wish to do.
CHAPTER IV.
ST. CLOUD'S PRONOUNCEMENT
The last clacking echo of the wagon died out in a coulee, and afterwards the deep silence of the country returned. Nan removed her hat and coat and sat on the edge of a trunk, all her impulses idle and indecisive for the while. Still heat pressed heavily through the house; the boards emitted a baked smell. Looking down at her fingertips, she thought again of the gracelessness of the place, then said quietly: "But I have no reason to ask anything more than plain shelter." The sense of defeat was almost overpowering.
There always had been in her a strain of lucid, self-examining honesty; and even now she was able to explain that feeling of being cast adrift. The Nan Avery who was important to herself and to others, who lived in the midstream of things, who was full of faith, no longer existed. Another Nan Avery sat on the trunk's edge and soberly looked back into ruin. There was nothing left. Yet the warning returned. "I must not go in for self-pity. I haven't the right." And after that the mutations of her drifting thoughts returned her to Dan Bellew. The oddness of it was that a few short weeks ago she would have liked him—but now never could—for in him were mirrored those qualities she no longer trusted—a man's obvious strength, a man's distinct, almost ruthless point of view. Her guard would always be against him; she couldn't soften her instinctive antagonism.
She got up, impatient with herself, forcing her mind back to the present and its necessities, wisely knowing that she had to drop the curtain on what was done. Going out through the kitchen, she surveyed the rear yard, the irregular line of fence, the sheds and the barn. Half interested, she primed the pump. When the water came spouting up she experienced a small feeling of encouragement. It was such a small thing—yet so certain. Water and food, sleeping and waking and the work of one's hands. "I have been living beyond myself," she said and observed that the house had been swept and that there was wood in the box beside the stove.
It was too hot to cook a meal, and so she made a lunch out of cheese and bread and water. She changed into more comfortable clothes and took up the job of unpacking. An ingrained feeling for neatness and order nagged at the supplies piled in the middle of the room, and she worked until her forehead was damp. Then, and there she stopped.
"Why should I hurry? There isn't anything here but time." She felt immeasurably better for having thought of it. Resting on a trunk, she tried to visualize what she could do with the barrenness