His last drowsily conscious act was to smile at the obliquity of his thought. In the morning he would do whatever that dark-haired, gray-eyed young woman requested. He had ridden slap into this thing. Whatever it was, he would see it through. Yet he couldn’t imagine her requiring anything of him except that he would perhaps ride into Fort Benton and notify whatever authorities functioned there that a man had been shot on the Marias. And that didn’t call for any great resolution on his part. Just the same, he desired greatly to know who this man was who looked so much like him, who shot him, and why? CHAPTER V: WRAPPED IN CANVAS Birds twittering in the poplars and willows by the river wakened Rock when the rose-pink dawn was turning to gold. He lay watching, listening. He could hear the ripple of running water. He could see the bleached hills rising abrupt from the gray-green valley floor. The cool air was like balm on his face. Beyond all doubt this was a pleasant country. If a man could settle on one of these river bottoms, with a couple of hundred cows, in ten years---- But Rock was a long way from peering anxious-eyed into the future. He sat up and rolled a cigarette. The sun thrust searching yellow fingers into the valley of the Marias. The winter-bleached log walls of the house drew his gaze and set his mind to work in fruitless speculation. This must be quite an outfit, he reflected. The house was big, built to accommodate a score of men. He had marked a bunk room across that hall from the roomy kitchen. The stable argued plenty of riding stock in winter. There were machinery and wagons, even a spring buggy, under a lean-to shed. Yet apparently the place was held down by a young woman, a baby, and one man. Hadn’t the girl said there were no other men? Still, she had been more or less fussed at the time. The riders might be afar on round-up. But Rock had that sense of abandonment, just the same. It was rather puzzling. Whereupon he reached for his boots, dressed, fed and watered the horses, and sat down on the river bank to watch the clear water sparkle in the sun, while he waited some sign of life from the house. He didn’t wait long. A voice at his elbow roused him to attention. The girl had come unseen and unheard. Her dark hair was coiled in a neat rope about her head. She had on a short gray skirt and a white blouse. Her skin, in the clear morning light, was like a piece of satin, dusky and transparent. Rock had seen enough of slatternly women on ranches to make him appreciate freshness. There was a peculiar interest-compelling quality about this girl, over and above her youth and charm. Rock had felt it last night. He felt it now, even when she said no more than a low-toned: “Good-morning, Mr. Holloway. “I thought you had gone,” she continued, “until I saw you moving around here. I must have seemed rather inhospitable last night, not even thinking where you were to sleep.”