“I asked him to bring me.” She stamped a foot against the buggy floor. “Jim Hunter, don’t you boss me. The time’s past for that. I’m going to make you take back what you said that time if it takes me ten years! If writing letters won’t do it, then I’ll try farming. You might at least have answered my letters out of courtesy.” “What’s all this foolishness about her living on the next place?” demanded Hunter, turning on Bud with a scowl. “Have you lost your mind? Great Scott, a woman can’t fight this desert, and you ought to know it, of all men!” Bud made an ineffectual gesture with his hand. There had been no preliminary warning to all this. The girl’s mouth was puckered together, and she seemed on the point of crying from sheer anger. “Oh, if I were a man I’d make you apologize right now! You can’t bully me, Jim Hunter! I’ll not stand for it, you hear? And I’ll show you if I’m a butterfly! Go on, Mr. Bud.” The storekeeper was only too glad to escape. The end of the reins smartly thwacked the horse’s rump, and they bumped over the uneven ground toward the Hazen place, a quarter mile on. Bud threw a quick glance behind him and saw Jim Hunter rooted in the same spot, arms akimbo, face furrowed. If he knew anything about it, Bud reflected, there was a young man who would soon wish a strong interview. But he discreetly held his peace and, when they reached the house, began the job of packing the trunk and the various tools and utensils inside. When he had finished he found the girl seated on the trunk, surveying the walls with a plain dismay. Truly, it was a sight to discourage mortal woman. A bachelor originally had lived here, a bachelor who had found the job of keeping up externals too great, let alone the niceties of housekeeping. The floor was littered with dirt, the walls and ceilings were bare and unpleasant. A stove stood half dismantled. A chair and table were overturned and partly broken. A bunk once stood against a wall, but now had parted company from itself. “Well,” said the girl, taking off her jacket, “the first thing’s to sweep.” The storekeeper was ready to shout. Spunk! She had more of it than a dozen men. Heretofore he had nourished misgivings, but now he moved solidly to her support. Those nice clothes and white hands didn’t mean anything. “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “We need a new deal. You just take a bucket and go out back fer some water in the well. Meanwhile I’ll tackle the broom, it bein’ a dirty job.” Broom and water, hammer and nails, elbow grease and much talk--by these means and two or three hours’ time Bud and the girl transformed the place into a passable shelter. There had been some wood left. Bud built a fire and cooked a meal while the girl added a touch here and there to the bare walls. It was after dark when Bud climbed into his buggy and started for home.