"Arctic exploration it was. My brother was one of the party. 'T was he brought me home Berg. Berg's mother was one of the sledge dogs. Party was shipwrecked, starved, most of the dogs eaten, one man dead. Berg's mother littered on the body one night. Next morning they were rescued and the new family was saved. Otherwise I guess they'd have had a puppy stew and Berg and his wife and family wouldn't be earning their living with me." "How do they earn their living?" asked Sheila, still peering at the hero of the tale. "They pull my sled about winters, Hidden Creek." "Oh, you live in the Hidden Creek country?" "Yes. Got a ranch up not far from the source. Ever been over The Hill?" She came toward Sheila, gathered the reins into her strong, broad hands, held them in her teeth, and began to pull on her canvas gloves. She talked with the reins between her teeth as she had with the spike, her enunciation triumphantly forceful and distinct. "Some day, I'm coming over The Hill," said Sheila, less successful with a contraction in her throat. The woman made a few strides. Now she was looking shrewdly, close into Sheila's face. "You're a biscuit-shooter at the hotel?" "No. I work in the saloon." "In the saloon? Oh, sure. Barmaid. I've heard of you." Here she put a square finger-tip under Sheila's chin and looked even closer than before. "Not happy, are you?" she said. She moved away abruptly. "Tired of town life. Been crying. Well, when you want to pull out, come over to my ranch. I need a girl. I'm kind of lonesome winters. It's a pretty place if you aren't looking for street-lamps and talking-machines. You don't hear much more than coyotes and the river and the pines and, if you're looking for high lights, you can sure see the stars ..." She climbed up to her seat, using the hub of her wheel for a foothold, and springing with surprising agility and strength. Sheila stepped aside and the horse started instantly. She made a few hurried steps to keep up. "Thank you," she said, looking up into the ruddy eyes that looked down. "I'll remember that. What is your name?" "Christina Blake, Miss Blake. I'll make The Hill before morning if I'm lucky. Less dust and heat by night and the horse has loafed since morning.... I mean that about coming to my place. Any time. Good-bye to you." She smiled a smile as casual in its own way as Sheila's own. Berg, under the wagon, trotted silently. He looked neither to right nor left. His wild, deep-set eyes were fastened on the heels of the small horse. He looked as though he were trotting relentlessly toward some wolfish goal of satisfied hunger. A little cloud of dust rose up from the wheels and stood between Sheila and the wagon. She conquered an impulse to run after it, shut her hand tight, and walked in at the back door of the saloon. A teamster, with a lean, fatherly face, his mouth veiled by a shaggy blond mustache, his eyes as blue as larkspur, smiled at her across the bar.