Hunter stalked to the porch, dumped the grub in his saddlebags, and climbed to the saddle. “If a man was in his right mind, he’d never come to this God-forsaken land.” “Road’s plumb open. You ain’t tied to that land. If you don’t admire it, why’n’t you just sashay out?” “Same reason you’ve stuck to this dump for fifteen years,” retorted Hunter. The two traded sober glances. Bud nodded. “Guess you’re right, son. We’re sort of spellbound. Gets in the blood, I reckon.” Hunter turned his horse to the road. In a moment he had disappeared through the jack pines. Bud settled in his chair after securing a fresh cigar and reverted to his original lines of thought. Jim Hunter now had been a homesteader three years and wore the same hard-bitten look that they all carried. It was partly the result of fighting the land. But that wasn’t wholly so. Jim had come from Portland with the same tight lips and the same stubborn carriage of body. Three years had done a great deal in seasoning and tempering the body and wearing away all softness. The essentials remained untouched. Regularly he came to Burnt Creek for supplies and mail. Regularly he received a letter in the same feminine handwriting, which he opened always with a brightening of face and crumpled later with a scowl which seemed to cover hurt pride and forlorn hope. Those letters, evidently, demanded something he would not give, for he never sent an answer through Bud’s little post office. The storekeeper reluctantly left the chair and wandered back to his kitchen. The sun blazed up in the sky, intolerably scorching. Bud viewed an empty pitcher and set to work at making a supply of lemonade against the greater heat of the long afternoon. A few beans, some hard bread, and a dish of canned peaches served for dinner. Then, with a fresh cigar and the lemonade at hand, he settled himself in the sultry shade. All things, in Bud’s philosophy, came to those who waited--provided the waiting was mixed with a little judicious helping. But the afternoon was not to be lonely. He had just started on the lemonade when the sputter of the Bend Klamath stage motor reached him. The vehicle swayed out of the forest, climbed the ruts of the road, skidded perilously amid a shower of sand, and brought a boiling radiator nose and nose with the porch. The driver had a passenger this trip. A woman it was, veiled against the dirt and sun. Teddy Hanson climbed away from his wheel and helped her to the porch. “Aw,” he said, “now what’s the good of stoppin’ at a horrible hole like this, ma’am? Gosh, think how lonely I’ll be all the way to Klamath.” “Flattery,” said the girl. She drew back the veil and Bud, greatly puzzled by this visit, found himself looking at an extremely pretty mouth and a pair of hazel eyes that could, when they pleased, be very friendly. Some shade of dark hair strayed pleasantly down a white temple. “Is this Mr. Bud?” she asked.