“Here!  What the deuce—?” he began.

“Listen to me!” The old man spoke in a queer, suppressed tone, and his eyes, when he turned them upon his fellow-packer, were even smokier than usual.  “Somebody’s up to a little thievin’, most likely, and it looks like I had ’em red-handed.  I’ve been layin’ for this!”

Pierce divested himself of his pack-harness, then said, simply, “If that’s the case, I’ll give you a hand.”

“Better stand back,” the other cautioned him.  “I don’t need any help—­this is my line.”  The man’s fatigue had fallen from him; of a sudden he had become surprisingly alert and forceful.  He stole forward, making as little noise as possible, and Phillips followed at his back.  They came to a pause within arm’s-length of the tent flaps, which they noted were securely tied.

“Hello inside!” The owner spoke suddenly and with his free hand he jerked at one of the knots.

There came an answering exclamation, a movement; then the flaps were seized and firmly held.

“You can’t come in!” cried a voice.

“Let go!  Quick!” The old man’s voice was harsh.

“You’ll have to wait a minute.  I’m undressed.”

Phillips retreated a step, as did the other man; they stared at each other.

“A woman!” Pierce breathed.

“Lord!” The owner of the premises slowly, reluctantly sheathed his weapon under his left arm.

“I invited myself in,” the voice explained—­it was a deep-pitched contralto voice.  “I was wet and nobody offered to let me dry out, so I took possession of the first empty tent I came to.  Is it yours?”

“It is—­half of it.  I’m mighty tired and I ain’t particular how you look, so hurry up.”  As the two men returned for their loads the speaker went on, irritably.  “She’s got her nerve!  I s’pose she’s one of these actresses.  There’s a bunch of ’em on the trail.  Actresses!” He snorted derisively.  “I bet she smells of cologne, and, gosh! how I hate it!”

When he and Pierce returned they were admitted promptly enough, and any lingering suspicions of the trespasser’s intent were instantly dissipated.  The woman was clad in a short, damp underskirt which fell about to her knees; she had drawn on the only dry article of apparel in sight, a man’s sweater jacket; she had thrust her bare feet into a pair of beaded moccasins; on a line attached to the ridgepole over her head sundry outer garments were steaming.  Phillips’ first thought was that this woman possessed the fairest, the whitest, skin he had ever seen; it was like milk.  But his first impressions were confused, for embarrassment followed quickly upon his entrance and he felt an impulse to withdraw.  The trespasser was not at all the sort of person he had expected to find, and her complete self-possession at the intrusion, her dignified greeting, left him not a little chagrined at his rudeness.  She eyed both men coolly from a pair of ice-blue eyes—­eyes