She turned back to the room where the white petticoat
lay upon the chair, but stopped with a little cry of alarm.
A man was standing in the centre of the room. He had entered stealthily
by the back door, and had waited for her to turn round. He was haggard
and travel stained, and there was a feverish light in his eyes. His
fingers trembled as they adjusted his belt, which seemed too large for
him. Mechanically he buckled it tighter.
"You're Jenny Long, ain't you?" he asked. "I beg pardon for sneakin'
in like this, but they're after me, some ranchers and a constable--one
o' the Riders of the Plains. I've been tryin' to make this house all
day. You're Jenny Long, ain't you?"
She had plenty of courage, and, after the first instant of shock, she had
herself in hand. She had quickly observed his condition, had marked the
candour of the eye and the decision and character of the face, and doubt
of him found no place in her mind. She had the keen observation of the
dweller in lonely places, where every traveller has the potentialities of
a foe, while the door of hospitality is opened to him after the custom of
the wilds.
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