Jean leaped nimbly to the saddle and cantered leisurely away.
Suddenly a bronzed and handsome horseman rode up beside her and lifted his hat,—a large sombrero, surmounting a pair of square shoulders that sported a gay serape.
"Good-morning, little miss. Or would you call it afternoon? I had stopped under the cottonwoods to graze my horse, and I couldn't resist the temptation to accost you. Going to California?"
- 'No; to Oregon."
"A God-forsaken country that. Rains thirteen months in every year."
"Have you ever been there?"
The stranger shook his head. "I've had rain enough in England to do me for the rest of my life."
"A little of the Oregon rains we Ve read about would be a godsend if we could have it now," said Jean, mopping her perspiring face with the curtain of her sunbonnet, and glancing ruefully at the brazen sky.
"May I ride beside you for a little distance?"
"If we keep in sight of the wagons, sir."
"You're not afraid of me, I hope?"
He was close beside her now, so close he could have grasped her bridle-rein.
"Afraid? Of course not. I am not afraid of any gentleman."
Do you belong to yonder camp?" Yes, sir."
"And there are two ladies travelling with you,—a widow and her daughter?"
There are a grass widow and a nigger, sir." Now see here, little one," and his voice grew harsh and loud, "you've been coached; that's evident. Don't be frightened. I don't mean to harm you. But I am no longer deceived. Will you do me a favor?"
He was reading her face anxiously.
