"Do you mean to tell me you have no relatives, no friends to whom you are going to write, or who will write you to find out how you are getting along, who may visit you?"
"It may be an acknowledgment of weakness, but we have cast off the shackles of our sex. We are not defenceless. We have claimed the right to emigrate, to follow westward the star of Empire."
Sheridan's voice and face were grave but he could not pierce the armor with which she had invested herself, the tantalizing dance of her eyes, her debonair, gay manner. She did not want him to be sorry for her, he saw that clearly. But what maze of fell circumstances had combined to bring them out here, so utterly alone, their only link with the East seeming to be the furniture that was coming, a link that would break the chain by its moving?
"You are very brave," he said and changed the subject swiftly. His quick eye had seen a move in the brush, his revolver had flashed out, the reports sounding before he seemed to have cleared the weapon from its holster. He slipped off his horse and picked up two grouse, neatly beheaded.
"To follow the waffles," he said. "Red, show Miss Thora how to get out of plucking."
Jackson caught the tossed birds and initiated the interested Thora into how to peel a warm bird of its feathers. Mary Burrows made no remark about the shooting. Sheridan flushed a little, fancying she might think him trying to show off. Presently she spoke.
"I don't think I am over squeamish," she said,
