from the Big One to the girl who was undoubtedly, in less democratic surroundings, her mistress. And Mary Burrows began to mount in Sheridan's estimation. She was clever, as well as unprejudiced by caste.
"I have told you my name," he said, as he shook hands with Thora and felt the vigor of her grip, electric with vitality. "Peter Sheridan. This is my friend and my mainstay at the ranch, Lem Jackson."
"Better known as 'Red,' Miss—and Miss," said Jackson, trying to appear at his ease, dropping the hand of the slimsy lady as if he thought he might hurt it, shaking that of Thora Neilsen as if it had been that of another man.
"We've seen you before," said Sheridan. "One night when we were camping at Lake of the Woods at sunset and you were on the rim of the mountain."
The girl's eyes widened.
"That was you? I told Thora about it. I rode to see the sunset and I saw the lake. It was like a great opal. I saw the little fire and two tiny figures by it. But I did not suppose you had noticed me. The mists were all about me."
"You looked like a wraith," laughed Sheridan. "I was inclined to doubt your solidity and Red thought you were a ghost for a minute. This is Ghost Mountain, you know? El Monte del Muerte, the Mount of Death."
"We are not afraid of ghosts. El Monte del Muerte, Mountain of Death, is the Spanish name. We knew that, of course. An Indian tribe lived here long ago. Thora dug up some arrowheads yesterday.
