sized it up with an appraising eye and notched the trunk.
“We’ll cut some regular wood for her, old boy,” he said. “She’s been burning squaw wood—limbs and scraps. I wish you could talk and tell me what it’s all about. She’s had something happen which has upset all her little world—and she’s run away from it. Her plans didn’t work out right and she’s had a tough time of it. Who is she, Flash, and how did she happen to know about this place?”
He had carried a dozen arm loads of wood before she announced the meal. The shadows were lengthening in the canyon when they had finished and Moran picked up his blanket roll.
“I’ll camp somewhere close at hand,” he said. “I’ll hear you if you call. You can decide in what way I can help you and I’ll hear the verdict in the morning.”
“Oh, don’t go,” she said. “Stay and talk to me. I’ve been alone too much. There’s some horrid beast that screams here in the canyon nearly every night. I want you to tell me what it is.”
Their conversation had been a little trite, limited to formal remarks, and Moran now welcomed the opportunity to break the ice by speaking on
