There was a moon, and the trail to the river was light enough for her to see plainly, but when she reached the timber clump in which Doubler had said Duncan had been hiding, she shuddered and made a detour to avoid passing close to it. This took her some distance out of her way, and she reached the river and walked along its bank for a little distance, searching for a deep accessible spot into which she could dip the pail. The shallow crossing over which she had ridden many times was not far away, and when she stooped to fill the pail she heard a sudden clatter and splashing, and looked up to see a horseman riding into the water from the opposite side of the river. He saw her at the instant she discovered him, and once over the ford he turned his horse and rode directly toward her. After gaining the bank he halted his pony and looked intently at her. "You're Langford's daughter, I reckon," he said. "Yes," she returned, seeing that he was a stranger; "I am." "I'm Ben Allen," he said shortly; "the sheriff of this county. What are you doing here?" "I am taking care of Ben Doubler," she said; "he has been----" "Then he ain't dead, of course," said Allen, interrupting her. It seemed to Sheila that there was relief and satisfaction in his voice, and she peered closer at him, but his face was hidden in the shadow of his hat brim. "He is very much better now," she told him, scarcely able to conceal her delight. "But he has been very bad." "Able to talk?" "Yes. He has just been talking to me." She took a step toward him, speaking earnestly and rapidly. "I suppose you are looking for Dakota," she said, remembering what her father had told her about sending Duncan to Lazette for the sheriff. "If you are looking for him, I want to tell you that he didn't shoot Doubler. It was Duncan. Doubler told me so not over five minutes ago. He said----" But Allen had spurred his pony forward, and before she could finish he was out of hearing distance, riding swiftly toward the cabin. Sheila lingered at the water's edge, for now suddenly she saw much beauty in the surrounding country, and she was no longer lonesome. She stood on the bank of the river, gazing long at the shadowy rims of the distant mountains, at their peaks, rising majestically in the luminous mist of the night; at the plains, stretching away and fading into the mysterious shadows of the distance; watching the waters of the river, shimmering like quicksilver--a band of glowing ribbon winding in and out and around the moon-touched buttes of the canyons. "Oh!" she said irrelevantly, "he isn't so bad, after all!"