meal in his whole life had ever tasted so good or satisfied him more.
In the first place he had done a man's work. For the first time in recent years his body actually demanded food: plenty of it and soon, for he had missed his lunch; besides, he had that inner peace and satisfaction of a day's work completed. Then its very preparation made it appetizing,—the slim, sure hands of the girl, her brown arms flashing, the fragrant wood smoke, the long, impressive vista of the Rockies behind the camp.
After supper he helped her wash the camp dishes; then cut fir-boughs for her bed that was to be situated nearly a quarter of a mile away, across the meadow. The idea of being afraid of him seemingly didn't even occur to her. She would have slept out the same way had he been from any other class of men, and Hugh could understand how his predecessors had respected her heavy revolver. Then there was a quiet hour with his new-found friend, his pipe,—and the girl telling her story in the fire's glow.
"My father's name is Crowson—Ezra Crowson," she began in the direct mountain way. "And mine — out here we don't bother with last names—is Alice Crowson. You don't have to call me Miss, Mr. Gaylord "
"And by the same token," he replied, "my first name is Hugh."
"Then Hugh "
