Jac dropped to a cross-legged position with the agility of an Indian and supporting her chin on both hands she stared impudently into the face of the stranger. “What does the land look like when the forest is gone?” “It ain’t been surveyed for so long I’ve forgotten.” He shifted a little to smile more directly into her eyes, and the movement caused her glance to drop to his holster. It was open. With a slow gesture--for no one, not even a woman, makes free with the weapon of another in the mountain desert--she drew the revolver out, looked it over with the keen eye of a connoisseur, glanced down the sights, spun the cylinder, and tried the balance with a deft hand. “Clean as a whistle,” she said as she restored the revolver. “_Some_ six-gun!” With a new respect she looked the man over from head to foot. “Maybe under the mask,” she said, “you look almost human.” “I dunno. Maybe.” Her eyes wandered far away; came back to him, frowned; wandered off again. “Can you dance?” she asked conversationally. He broke into a deep laughter. Jac gathered as if for a spring. “Go slow, partner,” she drawled. “Maybe I ain’t big, but believe me, I ain’t a house pet.” “I’d as soon think of fondlin’ a wildcat,” nodded the man. She hesitated between anger and curiosity, and then glanced around with needless anxiety lest they should not be alone. “Give it to me straight, pal,” she said. “How bad do I look?” Her companion looked her over with a critical eye and a judicious frown. “I dunno,” he said at last. “It’s pretty hard for me to tell. If those freckles was covered up, maybe I could see your face.” As he spoke he edged away, as if ready to spring from the porch when she attacked him. Instead, she sighed. The other started and looked at her with a new interest. “How old are you?” he asked sharply. “Three years more than you think.” “Sixteen?” “And three makes nineteen. You’re right the first time. How’d you do it?” He took off his hat and extended his hand. “My name is Bill Carrigan,” he said. Even in the dim light he could guess at the curiosity in her eyes. “Mine is Jac--Jacqueline During. I’m awfully glad to shake hands with you.” There was a little pause. “I suppose Maurie Gordon is nearly at the dance by this time?” he said tentatively. She nodded. The lump in her throat kept her silent. “How tall are you?” he asked suddenly. “Five feet five and a half.” “What’s your weight?” “One hundred and twenty. Say, Carrigan, what you drivin’ at?” He looked away as if making a mental note. “What size shoes?” She looked at him with a dark frown, but the twinkle of his eyes was irresistible. She broke into a laugh. “Look at ’em!” She extended to his gaze a foot clad in the heavy shoe of a man, cut square across the toe. “Well, Columbus, what have you discovered?” “Land,” said Carrigan, and rose. “You goin’ so soon?” she queried plaintively. “But I’m coming back,” said Carrigan. “Coming back?” repeated Jac. “With bells.”