It was the barking of a dog that brought Sheila out of a sleep--dreamless this time--into a state of semi-consciousness. It was Dakota's dog surely, she decided sleepily. She sighed and twisted to a more comfortable position. The effort awakened her and she opened her eyes, her gaze resting immediately on Dakota. He still sat at the table, silent, immovable, as before. But now he was sitting erect, his muscles tensed, his chin thrust out aggressively, his gaze on the door--listening. He seemed to be unaware of Sheila's presence; the sound that she had made in turning he apparently had not heard. There was an interval of silence and then came a knocking on the door--loud, unmistakable. Some one desired admittance. After the knock came a voice: "Hello inside!" "Hello yourself!" Dakota's voice came with a truculent snap. "What's up?" "Lookin' for a dry place," came the voice from without. "Mebbe you don't know it's wet out here!" Sheila's gaze was riveted on Dakota. He arose and noiselessly moved his chair back from the table and she saw a saturnine smile on his face, yet in his eyes there shone a glint of intolerance that mingled oddly with his gravity. "You alone?" he questioned, his gaze on the door. "Yes." "Who are you?" "Campbellite preacher." For the first time since she had been awake Dakota turned and looked at Sheila. The expression of his face puzzled her. "A parson!" he sneered in a low voice. "I reckon we'll have some praying now." He took a step forward, hesitated, and looked back at Sheila. "Do you want him in here?" Sheila's nod brought a whimsical, shallow smile to his face. "Of course you do--you're lonesome in here." There was mockery in his voice. He deliberately drew out his two guns, examined them minutely, returned one to his holster, retaining the other in his right hand. With a cold grin at Sheila he snuffed out the candle between a finger and a thumb and strode to the door--Sheila could hear him fumbling at the fastenings. He spoke to the man outside sharply. "Come in!" There was a movement; a square of light appeared in the wall of darkness; there came a step on the threshold. Watching, Sheila saw, framed in the open doorway, the dim outlines of a figure--a man. "Stand right there," came Dakota's voice from somewhere in the impenetrable darkness of the interior, and Sheila wondered at the hospitality that greeted a stranger with total darkness and a revolver. "Light a match." After a short interval of silence there came the sound of a match scratching on the wall, and a light flared up, showing Sheila the face of a man of sixty, bronzed, bearded, with gentle, quizzical eyes. The light died down, the man waited. Sheila had forgotten--in her desire to see the face of the visitor--to look for Dakota, but presently she heard his voice: "I reckon you're a parson, all right. Close the door."