She had turned her head and was giving her attention to the window above her. The fingers of the hand that had been supporting his head slowly clenched, he raised himself slightly, his body rigid, his chin thrusting, his face pale, his eyes burning with a sudden fierce fire. Once he opened his lips to speak, but instantly closed them again, and a smile wreathed them--a mirthless smile that had in it a certain cold caution and cunning. After a silence that lasted long his voice came again, drawling, well-controlled, revealing nothing of the emotion which had previously affected him. "What is your father's name?" "David Dowd Langford. An uncommon middle name, isn't it?" "Yes. Uncommon," came his reply. His face, with the light of the candle gleaming full upon it, bore a queer pallor--the white of cold ashes. His right hand, which had been resting carelessly on the blanket, was now gripping it, the muscles tense and knotted. Yet after another long silence his voice came again--drawling, well-controlled, as before: "What is he coming out here for?" "He has retired from business and is coming out here for his health." "What business was he in?" "Wholesale hardware." He was silent again and presently, hearing him stir, Sheila looked covertly at him. He had turned, his back was toward her, and he was stretched out on the blanket as though, fully satisfied with the result of his questioning, he intended going to sleep. For several minutes Sheila watched him with a growing curiosity. It was like a man to ask all and give nothing. He had questioned her to his complete satisfaction but had told nothing of himself. She was determined to discover something about him. "Who are you?" she questioned. "Dakota," he said shortly. "Dakota?" she repeated, puzzled. "That isn't a name; it's a State--or a Territory." "I'm Dakota. Ask anybody." There was a decided drawl in his voice. This information was far from being satisfactory, but she supposed it must answer. Still, she persisted. "Where are you from?" "Dakota." That seemed to end it. It had been a short quest and an unsatisfactory one. It was perfectly plain to her that he was some sort of a rancher--at the least a cowboy. It was also plain that he had been a cowboy before coming to this section of the country--probably in Dakota. She was perplexed and vexed and nibbled impatiently at her lips. "Dakota isn't your real name," she declared sharply. "Ain't it?" There came the drawl again. It irritated her this time. "No!" she snapped. "Well, it's as good as any other. Good-night." Sheila did not answer. Five minutes later she was asleep. CHAPTER II THE DIM TRAIL