“Yes, ma’am.  I was thinking of prospecting around.  I meant to homestead over there.  I like the country.  But when it comes to settling down I get kind of restless.  And usually I get into a mix-up that changes my intentions.  So I’d about decided to go back down Arizona way and work.—­Where are you going to stay in Hidden Creek?” he asked.  “Where’s your stuff?”

“Mr. Thatcher has it in his wagon.  I’m going to Miss Blake’s ranch.  She invited me.”

“Miss Blake?  You mean the lady that wears pants?  You don’t mean it!  Well, that’s right amusing.”  He laughed.

Sheila stirred angrily.  “I can’t see why it’s amusing.”

He sobered at once.  “Well, ma’am, maybe it isn’t.  No, I reckon it isn’t. 
How long will you stay?”

Sheila gave a big, sobbing sigh.  “I don’t know.  If she likes me and if I’m happy, I’ll stay there always.”  She added with a queer, dazed realization of the truth:  “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Haven’t you any—­folks?” he asked.

“No.”

“Got tired of Millings?”

“Yes—­very.”

“I don’t blame you!  It’s not much of a town.  You’ll like Hidden Creek.  And Miss Blake’s ranch is a mighty pretty place, lonesome but wonderfully pretty.  Right on a bend of the creek, ’way up the valley, close under the mountains.  But can you stand loneliness, Miss—­What is your name?”

There were curious breaks in his manner of a Western cowboy, breaks that startled Sheila like little echoes from her life abroad and in the East.  There was a quickness of voice and manner, an impatience, a hot and nervous something, and his voice and accent suggested training.  The abrupt question, for instance, was not in the least characteristic of a Westerner.

“My name is Sheila Arundel.  I don’t know yours either.”

“Do you come from the East?”

“Yes.  From New York.”  He gave an infinitesimal jerk.  “But I’ve lived abroad nearly all my life.  I think it would be politer if you would answer my question now.”

She felt that he controlled an anxious breath.  “My name is Hilliard,” he said, and he pronounced the name with a queer bitter accent as though the taste of it was unpleasant to his tongue.  “Cosme Hilliard.  Don’t you think it’s a—­nice name?”

For half a second she was silent; then she spoke with careful unconsciousness.  “Yes.  Very nice and very unusual.  Hilliard is an English name, isn’t it?  Where did the Cosme come from?”

It was well done, so well that she felt a certain tightening of his body relax and his voice sounded fuller.  “That’s Spanish.  I’ve some Spanish blood.  Here’s Buffin’s ranch.  We’re getting down.”