a little, but I am sure there is nothing for us to be afraid of."
"Plucky as a nestin' wren," murmured Jackson. Then, aloud, "No'm, there ain't nothin' to be alarmed at. We're harmless as yearlin's."
The girl, she was only that, gave a laugh that was like a silvery chiming of tiny bells but the pair was conscious of the dim shape of the bigger woman, suspicious, protective, holding her rifle ready.
"We'd like to leave our horses where we could tie them," said Sheridan. "We heard a mountain lion on the way up. They might get restless."
"There is a shed back of the house," she answered. "Our own horses are there. There is plenty of room."
What was a girl of her type doing in this wilderness? The marvel of it grew on Sheridan as they put away their mounts in the shed, a substantial affair built of heavy logs, like the house, and roughly divided into boxstalls that were bedded down with pine twigs. The wonder of finding Quong at Metzal depot faded beside this new riddle. The "slimsy lady" belonged against a background of mahogany highboys, old china, andirons, bookshelves and an Adams' mantel. He had a swift picture of her coming down a spiral staircase of white treads and slender white spindles, her white hand on the polished rail, her dainty body clad in white. And now she was dressed in a khaki skirt, with gaiters, a waist of blue flannel relieved by a bowtie of lighter blue silk. He had registered all this as she had stood in the door watching them as they rode round the cabin.
