It was nightfall when a single horseman drew rein before the dwelling of Archibald Hawksley, dismounting, and, with plump saddle-bags thrown over his arm, approached the front door with that assured freedom so characteristic of the West. There, hospitality is a matter of course. If sunset catches a traveler near a house, that, for the time being, is his home. He is welcomed, given the best the place affords, then sent on his way rejoicing. An experienced traveler never offers money in return; ’tis a poor reward for hospitality to insult a host. The traveler in question bore evidence of having ridden many a mile, in the sand and dust that covered his garments, and his heavy horse-hide boots. There was a peculiar air about him that told a settler his occupation. Every thing, from the heavy, “black-snake” whip down, stamped him a drover. Archibald Hawksley, a tall, stalwart man, bearing his years well, warmly greeted the stranger. Five minutes later, the drover was comfortably seated, pipe in mouth, awaiting the evening meal that Fanny was overseeing. “Stranger in these parts, I reckon,” quoth Hawksley, also “blowing a cloud,” falling insensibly into the peculiar dialect of the parts, though a well-educated man. “Yas—this is my fust trip this fur out, though I’ve traded over the line fer some y’ars. Met a feller in Naketosh” (Natchitoches) “last trip—fergit his name now, but reckon it don’t matter much—who told me thar was a chaince fer right smart tradin’ up this a-way; so here I be, ready fer business. I’ve got the money, you fellers hev got the spar’ horses an’ cattle, so I guess we kin come to tarms.” A man is never so grief-stricken as to entirely neglect his personal interests, and Hawksley was soon deep in “business talk” with Mark Haley, as the trader gave his name. There was little difficulty in coming to terms, for the trader offered good prices, seeming strangely liberal, for a drover. During supper, Fannie several times caught his gaze resting fixedly upon her face, and felt a strange, ill-defined uneasiness that she could not entirely banish. And yet this close scrutiny might well be pardoned, for the maiden was very pleasing to look upon, and the drover seemed just in the prime of life, when one’s fancy is most quickly caught by a fresh, lovely face. Fannie Hawksley was more than ordinarily beautiful—indeed the family were noted for their good-looks, and she was the bright star of all. Under the medium hight, small and light as a fairy, her form was well developed and true-proportioned. Rich brown hair, a clear, fresh complexion, and melting hazel eyes—little wonder that Mark Haley gazed admiringly at her. After supper was dispatched, the men stepped outside, and, with lighted pipes, continued their bartering. Haley’s eyes often wandered toward the house, seemingly admiring its structure, a two-story building being something of a novelty at that time, so far on the frontier.