Three weeks later Noel Brooke and Gerald, after a long day’s ride, halted their horses in front of a rude, one-story dwelling at the foot of a precipitous hill in Western Colorado.

“I hope this is a hotel, Gerald,” said the tourist. “I am tired and hungry.”

“So am I. We have had a rough ride to-day.”

“No doubt our poor horses think so,” went on Brooke, gently stroking the neck of his patient steed. The weary animal signified the pleasure which the caress gave him, and turning his head looked at his rider with almost human intelligence.

“Shall I dismount and inquire, Mr. Brooke?” asked Gerald.

“Yes, if you please.”

Gerald knocked on the door, which after a slight delay, was opened by a tall, gaunt woman attired in a soiled calico dress which hung limply about her thin and bony figure.

“Madam,” said Gerald, lifting his hat with quite unnecessary politeness, for the woman before him knew nothing of social observances, “is this a hotel?”

“Well,” drawled the woman, “we sometimes put up travelers here.”

“I am glad to hear it. My friend and I have ridden far to-day, and would like to have supper and a bed.”

“That’ll be a dollar apiece,” said the woman abruptly.

“We are willing to pay it; and can we get some provision for our horses?”

“This ain’t no horse tavern, but you can tie ’em to a tree and let ’em forage for themselves.”

“That will do,” answered Gerald. “Mr. Brooke,” he added, “this lady consents to entertain us.”

“I shall esteem it a favor,” said Noel Brooke, alighting from his horse.

“Did you tell him what I charged?” asked the backwoods landlady.

“We are to pay a dollar each,” explained Gerald, turning to his companion.

“That is satisfactory,” said the tourist.

“You may give it to me now,” said the new landlady with commendable caution.

“Just as you please, madam.”

Noel Brooke took out a large wallet that seemed well filled with bills, and selecting a two-dollar note passed it over.

The landlady extended her hand eagerly, and taking the bill examined it minutely, and finally, as if satisfied with her scrutiny, thrust it into a probable pocket in the interior recesses of her dress. She was evidently fond of money, judging from her manner, and Gerald noticed that she fixed a covetous look on the large and well-filled wallet from which Mr. Brooke had selected the bank bill. It gave him a momentary feeling of uneasiness, but he reflected that there was little danger from a solitary woman, and did not mention his feeling to the tourist.

“What do you want for supper?” asked the woman in a quick, jerky way.

“Almost anything, provided it is hearty and there is enough of it, madam.”

“I’ve got some antelope steak and corn cakes, and I’ll boil some potatoes if you want ’em.”

“That will do admirably. But where did you get antelope meat? You didn’t shoot the animal yourself?”

“No, my man shot him.”

That settled the question that had arisen in Gerald’s mind. The woman had a husband.

“I might have known that you didn’t shoot him yourself.”

“And maybe you’d be mistaken. I’ve dropped more’n one fine antelope, if I am a woman—Bess, bring me my rifle.”

Bess, undoubtedly the woman’s daughter, was quite a contrast to her thin, bony mother, for, though not over the average height of women, she would easily have tipped the scales at a hundred and eighty pounds. She had a round, fat face, rather vacant in expression, but good-natured, and in that respect much more attractive than her mother’s. She brought out a large rifle, which her mother took from her and raised to her shoulder in fine, sportsmanlike fashion.

“Please don’t mistake me for antelope, madam,” said Noel Brooke hastily.

This excited the risibilities of Bess, who broke into a loud and noisy fit of laughter.

“What yer cacklin’ at, Bess?” demanded her mother.

“No, I won’t shoot yer,” she added, turning to Brooke. “You wouldn’t be half so good eatin’ as an antelope.”

Here Bess went off into another fit of laughter, in which Gerald and his companion joined, for the girl’s evident enjoyment was contagious.

“I am glad to hear that, madam.”

“What do you call me madam for?” inquired the woman suspiciously.

“Because I don’t know your name.”

“My name’s Sal Peters.”

“I shall remember, Mrs. Peters.”

“Bess, you can go and tell the man where to tie his hoss.”

The girl led the way to the rear of the building, where about a hundred feet back was a sapling with a long rope attached to it.

“Hitch your hoss on to that,” said she. “And there’s another for the young chap.”

Gerald smiled at this designation, and availed himself of the information.

“You can set down anywhere, and when supper’s ready I’ll shout.”

“Thank you, Miss Peters,” said the tourist with an amused smile.

But Bess seemed still more amused at being called Miss Peters.

“Oh, I shall bust with laughing, I shall!” she giggled. “Miss Peters! Oh, ain’t you funny, though?”

“Is there any place to wash?” asked Gerald, looking at his dust-soiled hands.

Bess pointed to a little rill of water that flowed and trickled down the hillside, and which Gerald had not yet observed.

“Thank you!”

“Towels are apparently unknown in this wilderness,” said Brooke, after Bess had gone back to the house.

“And soap, too, I expect.”

“A little extra rubbing will make up for the last, and our handkerchiefs may do as a substitute for the former. This seems a primitive sort of place.”

Gerald admired the ease with which Mr. Brooke, who had undoubtedly been brought up in the lap of luxury, adapted himself to the accommodations of the wilderness. The young man, after refreshing himself with an ablution, threw himself on the grass, and said contentedly: “It seems good to rest after our long ride.”

“Yes, Mr. Brooke, that is the way I feel.”

“To tell you the truth, Gerald, I was afraid we might have to camp out in the woods, and go to bed without our supper.”

“Our hotel isn’t exactly first class.”

“No, but if we get a plain supper and a comfortable night’s rest it ought to satisfy us. If I cared to stop at first-class hotels I would have remained in the larger cities. But I like better, for a time at least, the freedom of the woods, even if it carries with it some personal sacrifices and privations.”

“I have been thinking, Mr. Brooke, that my duties as private secretary are not very laborious.”

“True, Gerald,” answered the tourist smiling. “In fact I have no use for a private secretary as such, but I wanted a companion, and you are worth more to me in that capacity than a college graduate whose acquirements would be much greater.”

“But, Mr. Brooke, it doesn’t seem to me that I am earning the very liberal salary you are paying me.”

“Not perhaps by your labors as secretary, but your company I rate higher than this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brooke,” said Gerald, gratified by this evidence of appreciation.

“So that you needn’t feel any compunction at accepting your salary.”

“I know you mean what you say, and I shall hereafter feel easy on that score. I wonder what would have been my future if you had not made your appearance.”

“You would have got along somehow. You are a clever boy, one of those that get on. There is one thing I reproach myself for, however.”

“What is that, Mr. Brooke?”

“I have taken you away from the congenial society of Jake Amsden.”

Gerald laughed.

“It is true,” he said, “but I will try to find compensation in yours.”

Noel Brooke rose and made a low bow.

“Really,” he said, “I can’t remember when I received such a compliment before.”

At this moment Bess came out of the cabin and called out “Supper’s ready, you fellers!”

“And we ‘fellers’ are ready for it,” said Noel Brooke rising briskly. “Come along, Gerald, the inner man and the inner boy must be replenished.”