"I believe I've heard of you, miss," he said. A delicate pink stained her face and throat and he wondered if she could possibly be shy. "Some fellows I met over in the Big Horn country lately told me to look you up if I came to Millings. They said something about Hudson's Queen. It's the Hudson Hotel isn't it?--" A puzzled, rather worried look crept into her eyes, but she avoided his question. "You were working in the Big Horn country? I hoped you were from Hidden Creek." "I'm on my way there," he said. "I know that country well. You come from over there?" "No." She smiled faintly. "But"--and here her breast lifted on a deep, spasmodic sigh--"some day I'm going there." "It's not like any other country," he said, turning his glass in his supple fingers. "It's wonderful. But wild and lonesome. You wouldn't be caring for it--not for longer than a sunny day or two, I reckon." He used the native phrases with sure familiarity, and yet in his speaking of them there was something unfamiliar. Evidently she was puzzled by him, and Cosme was not sorry that he had so roused her curiosity. He was very curious himself, so much so that he had forgotten the explosive moment of a few short minutes back. The occupants of the second table pushed away their chairs and came over to the bar. For a while the barmaid was busy, making their change, answering their jests, bidding them good-night. It was, "Well, good-night, Miss Arundel, and thank you." "See you next Saturday, Miss Arundel, if I'm alive--" Hilliard drummed on the counter with his fingertips and frowned. His puzzled eyes wove a pattern of inquiry from the men to the girl and back. One of them, a ruddy-faced, town boy, lingered. He had had a drop too much of The Aura's hospitality. He rested rather top-heavily against the bar and stretched out his hand. "Aren't you going to say me a real good-night, Miss Sheila," he besought, and a tipsy dimple cut itself into his cheek. "Do go home, Jim," murmured the barmaid. "You've broken your promise again. It's two o'clock." He made great ox-eyes at her, his hand still begging, its blunt fingers curled upward like a thirsty cup. His face was emptied of everything but its desire. It was perfectly evident that "Miss Sheila" was tormented by the look, by the eyes, by the hand, by the very presence of the boy. She pressed her lips tight, drew her fine arched brows together, and twisted her fingers. "I'll go home," he asserted obstinately, "when you tell me a proper goo'-night--not before." Her eyes glittered. "Shall I tell Carthy to turn you out, Jim?" He smiled triumphantly. "Uh," said he, "your watch-dog went out. Dickie called him to answer the telephone. Now, will you tell me good-night, Sheila?"