“Gettin' the dust off me,” he said, in hurried explanation; “be down in a second.” Indeed, in another moment he had resumed his shirt and flannel coat, and swung himself to the floor with a like grace and dexterity, that was to her the revelation of a descending god. She found herself face to face with him,--his features cleansed of dirt and grime, his hair plastered in wet curls on his low forehead. It was a face of cheap adornment, not uncommon in his profession--unintelligent, unrefined, and even unheroic; but she did not know that. Overcoming a sudden timidity, she nevertheless told him briefly and concisely of the arrival and departure of his pursuers. His low forehead wrinkled. “Thar's no getting away until they come back,” he said without looking at her. “Could ye keep me in here to-night?” “Yes,” she returned simply, as if the idea had already occurred to her; “but you must lie low in the loft.” “And could you”--he hesitated, and went on with a forced smile--“you see, I've eaten nothing since last night. Could you”-- “I'll bring you something,” she said quickly, nodding her head. “And if you had”--he went on more hesitatingly, glancing down at his travel-torn and frayed garments--“anything like a coat, or any other clothing? It would disguise me also, you see, and put 'em off the track.” She nodded her head again rapidly: she had thought of that too; there was a pair of doeskin trousers and a velvet jacket left by a Mexican vaquero who had bought stock from them two years ago. Practical as she was, a sudden conviction that he would look well in the velvet jacket helped her resolve. “Did they say”--he said, with his forced smile and uneasy glance--“did they--tell you anything about me?” “Yes,” she said abstractedly, gazing at him. “You see,” he began hurriedly, “I'll tell you how it was.” “No, don't!” she said quickly. She meant it. She wanted no facts to stand between her and this single romance of her life. “I must go and get the things,” she added, turning away, “before he gets back.” “Who's HE?” asked the man. She was about to reply, “My husband,” but without knowing why stopped and said, “Mr. Beasley,” and then ran off quickly to the house. She found the vaquero's clothes, took some provisions, filled a flask of whiskey in the cupboard, and ran back with them, her mouth expanded to a vague smile, and pulsating like a schoolgirl. She even repressed with difficulty the ejaculation “There!” as she handed them to him. He thanked her, but with eyes fixed and fascinated by the provisions. She understood it with a new sense of delicacy, and saying, “I'll come again when he gets back,” ran off and returned to the house, leaving him alone to his repast.