Kalman heard not a word.  He was standing as in a dream, gazing upon the tent into which the girl had vanished.  Ignoring the young man, he got his horse and mounted, and calling his dogs, rode off up the trail.

“Hello there!” cried Harris, the engineer, after him.  Kalman reined up.  “Do you know where I can get any oats?”

“Yes,” said Kalman, “up at our ranch.”

“And where is that?”

“Ten miles from here, across the Night Hawk Creek.”  Then, as if taking a sudden resolve, “I’ll bring them down to you this afternoon.  How much do you want?”

“Twenty-five bushels would do us till we reach the construction camp.”

“I’ll bring them to-day,” said Kalman, riding away, his dogs limping after him.

In a few moments the girl came out of the tent.  “Oh!” she cried to the engineer, “is he gone?”

“Yes,” said Harris, “but he’ll be back this afternoon.  He is going to bring me some oats.”  His smile brought a quick flush to the girl’s cheeks.

“Oh! has he?” she said, with elaborate indifference.  “What a lovely morning!  It’s wonderful for so late in the year.  You have a splendid country here, Mr. Harris.”

“That’s right,” he said; “and the longer you stay in it, the better you like it.  You’ll be going to settle in it yourself some day.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” cried the girl, with a deeper blush, and a saucy toss of her head.  “It is a fine country, but it’s no’ Scotland, ye ken, as my Aunt would say.  My! but I’m fair starving.”

It happened that the ride to the Galician colony, planned for that afternoon by Mr. Penny the day before, had to be postponed.  Miss Marjorie was hardly up to it.  “It must be the excitement of the country,” she explained carefully to Mr. Penny, “so I’ll just bide in the camp.”

“Indeed, you are wise for once in your life,” said her Aunt Janet.  “As for me, I’m fair dune out.  With this hurly-burly of such terrible excitement I wonder I did not faint right off.”

“Hoots awa’, Aunt Janet,” said her niece, “it was no time for fainting, I’m thinking, with yon wolf in the tent beside ye.”

“Aye, lassie, you may well say so,” said Aunt Janet, lapsing into her native tongue, into which in unguarded moments she was rather apt to fall, and which her niece truly loved to use, much to her Aunt’s disgust, who considered it a form of vulgarity to be avoided with all care.

As the afternoon was wearing away, a wagon appeared in the distance.  The gentlemen were away from camp inspecting the progress of the work down the line.

“There’s something coming yonder,” said Miss Marjorie, whose eyes had often wandered down the trail that afternoon.

“Mercy on us!  What can it be, and them all away,” said her Aunt in distress.  “Put your saddle on and fly for your father or Mr. Harris.  I am terrified.  It is this awful country.  If ever I get out alive!”