"What made you decide to ride with me to the Rancho Seco?" she demanded sharply. Harlan flashed a grin at her. He was riding a little in advance of her, and he had to turn in the saddle to see her face. "I was headin' that way, an' wanted company. It sure gets lonesome ridin' alone." She caught her breath at this answer, for it seemed that he had not revealed the real reason. And she had got her first good look at his face. It was lean and strong. His eyes were deep-set and rimmed by heavy lashes and brows, and there was a glow in them as he looked at her--a compelling fixity that held her. Her own drooped, and were lifted to his again in sheer curiosity, she thought at first. It was only when she found herself, later, trying to catch his glance again that she realized they were magnetic eyes, and that the glow in them was of a subtle quality that could not be analyzed at a glance. The girl was alert to detect a certain expression in his eyes--a gleam that would tell her what she half feared--that the motive that had brought him with her was like that which had caused Deveny to hold her captive. But she could detect no such expression in Harlan's eyes, she could see a quizzical humor in his glances at times, or frank interest, and there were times when she saw a grim pity. And the pity affected her strangely. It brought him close to her--figuratively; it convinced her that he was a man of warm sympathies in spite of the reputation he held in the Territory. She had heard her father speak of him--always with a sort of awe in his voice; and tales of his reckless daring, his Satanic cleverness with a six-shooter, of his ruthlessness, had reached her ears from other sources. He had seemed, then, like some evil character of mythology, remote and far, and not likely to appear in the flesh in her section of the country. It seemed impossible that she had fled to such a man for protection--and that he had protected her; and that she was now riding beside him--or slightly behind him--and that, to all appearances, he was quite as respectful toward her as other men. That, she surmised, was what made it all seem so strange. Harlan did not seem disposed to talk; and he kept Purgatory slightly in the lead--except when the trail grew dim or disappeared altogether. Then he would pull the black horse up, look inquiringly at Barbara, and urge Purgatory after her when she took the lead. But there were many things that Barbara wanted to inquire about; and it was when they were crossing a big level between some rimming hills, where the trail was broad, that she urged her pony beside the black. "Won't you tell me about father--how he died?" she asked.