“Looks rather tough, I reckon, miss,” waving a big hand over the table.  “But you ’ll have ter git used to it in this kentry.”

“Oh, I do not believe I ever could,” disconsolately.  “I can scarcely choke down a mouthful.”

“So I was noticin’; from the East, I reckon?”

“Yes; I—­I came last night, and—­and really I am afraid I am actually homesick already.  It—­it is even more—­more primitive than I supposed.  Do—­do you live here—­at Ripley?”

“Good Lord, no!” heartily, “though I reckon yer might not think my home wuz much better.  I ‘m the post-trader down at Fort Marcy, jist out o’ Santa Fe.  I ’ll be blame glad ter git back thar too, I ‘m a tellin’ yer.”

“That—­that is what I wished to ask you about,” she stammered.  “The Santa Fe stage; when does it leave here? and—­and where do I arrange for passage?”

He dropped knife and fork, staring at her across the table.

“Good Lord, miss,” he exclaimed swiftly.  “Do yer mean to say ye ’re goin’ to make that trip alone?”

“Oh, not to Santa Fe; only as far as the stage station at the Arkansas crossing,” she exclaimed hastily.  “I am going to join my father; he—­he commands a post on the Cimarron—­Major McDonald.”

“Well, I ’ll be damned,” said the man slowly, so surprised that he forgot himself.  “Babes in the wilderness; what, in Heaven’s name, ever induced yer dad to let yer come on such a fool trip?  Is n’t thar no one to meet yer here, or at Dodge?”

“I—­I don’t know,” she confessed.  “Father was going to come, or else send one of his officers, but I have seen no one.  I am here two days earlier than was expected, and—­and I haven’t heard from my father since last month.  See, this is his last letter; won’t you read it, please, and tell me what I ought to do?”

The man took the letter, and read the three pages carefully, and then turned back to note the date, before handing the sheets across the table.

“The Major sure made his instructions plain enough,” he said slowly.  “And yer have n’t heard from him since, or seen any one he sent to meet yer?”

The girl shook her head slowly.

“Well, that ain’t to be wondered at, either,” he went on.  “Things has changed some out yere since that letter was wrote.  I reckon yer know we ‘re havin’ a bit o’ Injun trouble, an’ yer dad is shore to be pretty busy out thar on the Cimarron.”

“I—­I do not think I do.  I have seen no papers since leaving St. Louis.  Is the situation really serious?  Is it unsafe for me to go farther?”

The man rubbed his chin, as though undecided what was best to say.  But the girl’s face was full of character, and he answered frankly.