"I reckon you've been writin' some of that book, ma'am," he said, seeing the papers lying on the rock beside her. "I don't see why you should want to write a Western story. Do folks in the East get interested in knowin' what's goin' on out here?" She suddenly thought of herself. Had she found it interesting? She looked swiftly at him, appraising him from a new viewpoint, feeling a strange, new interest in him. "It would be strange if they didn't," she returned. "Why, it is the only part of the country in which there still remains a touch of romance. You must remember that this is a young country; that its history began at a comparatively late date. England can write of its feudal barons; France of its ancient aristocracy; but America can look back only to the Colonial period--and the West." "Mebbe you're right," he said, not convinced. "But I expect there ain't a heap of romance out here. Leastways, if there is it manages to keep itself pretty well hid." She smiled, thinking of the romance that surrounded him--of which, plainly, he was not conscious. To him, romance meant the lights, the crowds, the amusements, the glitter and tinsel of the cities of the East, word of which had come to him through various channels. To her these things were no longer novel,--if they had ever been so--and so for her romance must come from the new, the unusual, the unconventional. The West was all this, therefore romance dwelt here. "Of course it all seems commonplace to you," she returned; "perhaps even monotonous. For you have lived here long." He laughed. "I've traveled a heap," he said. "I've been in California, Dakota, Wyoming, Texas, an' Arizona. An' now I'm here. Savin' a man meets different people, this country is pretty much all the same." "You must have had a great deal of experience," she said. "And you are not very old." He gravely considered her. "I would say that I am about the average age for this country. You see, folks don't live to get very old out here--unless they're mighty careful." "And you haven't been careful?" He smiled gravely. "I expect you wouldn't call it careful. But I'm still livin'." His words were singularly free from boast. "That means that you have escaped the dangers," she said. "I have heard that a man's safety in this country depends largely upon his ability to shoot quickly and accurately. I suppose you are accounted a good shot?" The question was too direct. His eyes narrowed craftily. "I expect you're thinkin' of that book now ma'am," he said. "There's a heap of men c'n shoot. You might say they're all good shots. I've told you about the men who can't shoot good. They're either mighty careful, or they ain't here any more. It's always one or the other."