"Don't mention it. Say, how far did you say it was to Palmer? We'll have
lunch there."

"It's fifteen miles--that way," answered Dorn. "If it wasn't for--for
father I'd like you to stay--and break some of my bread."

Dorn was looking at the girl as he spoke. Her steady gaze had been on
him ever since she entered the car, and in the shade of her hat and the
veil she was adjusting her eyes seemed very dark and sweet and
thoughtful. She brightly nodded her thanks as she held the veil aside
with both hands.

"I wish you luck. Good-by," she said, and closed the veil.

Still, Dorn could see her eyes through it, and now they were sweeter,
more mysterious, more provocative of haunting thoughts. It flashed over
him with dread certainty that he had fallen in love with her. The shock
struck him mute. He had no reply for the rancher's hearty farewell. Then
the car lurched away and dust rose in a cloud.




CHAPTER III

With a strange knocking of his heart, high up toward his throat, Kurt
Dorn stood stock-still, watching the moving cloud of dust until it
disappeared over the hill.

No doubt entered his mind. The truth, the fact, was a year old--a