She had arrived at a point where she needed encouragement. The morning was passing; the tent was very hot; flies swarmed everywhere, and her dough-covered hands could not grasp and tuck away the refractory curl that was tickling the end of her nose. "If you want pies," she went on, "you'd better send for one of your cowboy cooks to come and make them. I can't." "Excuse me, ma'am. Can I help?" At the sound of the strange voice Harriet turned, dismayed. In the doorway of the tent stood a dark, slender man eying her questioningly. In his khaki shirt, scarlet neckerchief, silver-trimmed leather "chaps" and broad-brimmed hat he was all that Harry had imagined a cowboy should be. There was something familiar to her in his dark-eyed face; and when he said, "Is Mr. Holliday here? I'm fetching in a bunch of colts--Jones is my name," she remembered at once. "Mr. Holliday is not here, but please come in, Mr. Jones," she said. "I am his sister." Jones came into the tent and sat down on a cracker box near the door. "How do you like Idaho?" he asked. "I'd like it better if I'd learned to make pies before I came," Harry replied, with a rueful glance at her sticky hands. "Rob has told me how well all the men out in this country can cook. It makes me feel so stupid not to be able to. Rob has tried to show me how to make sour-dough bread and stew frijole beans--with red peppers and garlic, you know. Aren't they awful? Rob likes them, though." "They ain't so bad," said Jones gravely, turning his hat in his hands and glancing oddly at the girl from under his eyebrows. "Well, maybe not, when you're very, very hungry. I can manage to cook _them_, but pie--look at it!" She viciously prodded the glistening, sticky paste. "I guess I'll just throw it away and start fresh." "Oh, I wouldn't waste it! Ain't you got it a little wet, mebbe?" "Is that it? What must I do? I'm sure you are laughing in your sleeve at me." "Not much. I remember what an all-fired mess I had layin' round when I first waded into pie makin'. But now if I was you and you told me to turn that there into hot bread and take a new layout for the pie, I reckon I'd try it." "Thank you!" Harry laughed. "If I were you, Mr. Jones, and you were I, and I saw you in this fix, do you know what I'd do? Offer to show me--you--how to do it." With a smile, Jones laid his hat under the table, dipped some water into the hand basin, washed his hands, and came over to the table. "I'll grease the pans," Harry said. "The apples are ready. And there! I forgot all about the fire. This business of putting in wood every five minutes----" She put wood into the stove, filled the kettle, stirred the beans, and greased the pans; all the while she watched the new cook as he worked. "I'd rather organize a fresh batch of dough," he said apologetically. "Makin' it over would be like tryin' to make a cow pony out of a cayuse that's been half broke to a buggy."