Charming Billy brought himself rigidly to consider the duties of a host; swept his arm across a bench to clear it of sundry man garments, and asked her again to sit down.  When she did so, he saw that her fingers were clasped tightly to hold her from shivering, and he raved inwardly at his shiftlessness the while he hurried to light a fire in the stove.

“Too bad your horse fell,” he remarked stupidly, gathering up the handful of shavings he had whittled from a piece of pine board.  “I always hate to see a horse get hurt.”  It was not what he had wanted to say, but he could not seem to put just the right thing into words.  What he wanted was to make her feel that there was nothing out of the ordinary in her being there, and that he was helpful and sympathetic without being in the least surprised.  In all his life on the range he had never had a young woman walk into a line-camp at dusk—­a strange young woman who tried pitifully to be at ease and whose eyes gave the lie to her manner—­and he groped confusedly for just the right way in which to meet the situation.

“I know your father,” he said, fanning a tiny blaze among the shavings with his hat, which had been on his head until he remembered and removed it in deference to her presence.  “But I ain’t a very good neighbor, I guess; I never seem to have time to be sociable.  It’s lucky your horse fell close enough so yuh could walk in to camp; I’ve had that happen to me more than once, and it ain’t never pleasant—­but it’s worse when there ain’t any camp to walk to.  I’ve had that happen, too.”

The fire was snapping by then, and manlike he swept the ashes to the floor.  The girl watched him, politely disapproving.  “I don’t want to be a trouble,” she said, with less of constraint; for Charming Billy, whether he knew it or not, had reassured her immensely.  “I know men hate to cook, so when I get warm, and the water is hot, I’ll cook supper for you,” she offered.  “And then I won’t mind having you help me to get home.”

“I guess it won’t be any trouble—­but I don’t mind cooking.  You—­you better set still and rest,” murmured Charming Billy, quite red.  Of course, she would want supper—­and there were dried apricots, and a very little tapioca!  He felt viciously that he could kill the Pilgrim and be glad.  The Pilgrim was already two days late with the supplies he had been sent after because he was not to be trusted with the duties pertaining to a line-camp—­and Billy had not the wide charity that could conjure excuses for the delinquent.

“I’ll let you wash the dishes,” promised Miss Bridger generously.  “But I’ll cook the supper—­really, I want to, you know.  I won’t say I’m not hungry, because I am.  This Western air does give one such an appetite, doesn’t it?  And then I walked miles, it seems to me; so that ought to be an excuse, oughtn’t it?  Now, if you’ll show me where the coffee is—­”

She had risen and was looking at him expectantly, with a half smile that seemed to invite one to comradeship.  Charming Billy looked at her helplessly, and turned a shade less brown.