Dale hesitated, with his hand on the door. He glanced at the crowd, now edging close again, and then at Helen. “I reckon I ought to tell you,” he said, and indecision appeared to concern him. “What?” exclaimed Helen. “Bad news. But talkin' takes time. An' we mustn't lose any.” “There's need of hurry?” queried Helen, sitting up sharply. “I reckon.” “Is this the stage to Snowdrop? “No. That leaves in the mornin'. We rustled this old trap to get a start to-night.” “The sooner the better. But I--I don't understand,” said Helen, bewildered. “It'll not be safe for you to ride on the mornin' stage,” returned Dale. “Safe! Oh, what do you mean?” exclaimed Helen. Apprehensively she gazed at him and then back at Bo. “Explainin' will take time. An' facts may change your mind. But if you can't trust me--” “Trust you!” interposed Helen, blankly. “You mean to take us to Snowdrop?” “I reckon we'd better go roundabout an' not hit Snowdrop,” he replied, shortly. “Then to Pine--to my uncle--Al Auchincloss? “Yes, I'm goin' to try hard.” Helen caught her breath. She divined that some peril menaced her. She looked steadily, with all a woman's keenness, into this man's face. The moment was one of the fateful decisions she knew the West had in store for her. Her future and that of Bo's were now to be dependent upon her judgments. It was a hard moment and, though she shivered inwardly, she welcomed the initial and inevitable step. This man Dale, by his dress of buckskin, must be either scout or hunter. His size, his action, the tone of his voice had been reassuring. But Helen must decide from what she saw in his face whether or not to trust him. And that face was clear bronze, unlined, unshadowed, like a tranquil mask, clean-cut, strong-jawed, with eyes of wonderful transparent gray. “Yes, I'll trust you,” she said. “Get in, and let us hurry. Then you can explain.” “All ready, Bill. Send 'em along,” called Dale. He had to stoop to enter the stage, and, once in, he appeared to fill that side upon which he sat. Then the driver cracked his whip; the stage lurched and began to roll; the motley crowd was left behind. Helen awakened to the reality, as she saw Bo staring with big eyes at the hunter, that a stranger adventure than she had ever dreamed of had began with the rattling roll of that old stage-coach. Dale laid off his sombrero and leaned forward, holding his rifle between his knees. The light shone better upon his features now that he was bareheaded. Helen had never seen a face like that, which at first glance appeared darkly bronzed and hard, and then became clear, cold, aloof, still, intense. She wished she might see a smile upon it. And now that the die was cast she could not tell why she had trusted it. There was singular force in it, but she did not recognize what kind of force. One instant she thought it was stern, and the next that it was sweet, and again that it was neither. “I'm glad you've got your sister,” he said, presently.