“Why not?”
“Well, now,” the sheriff said, “it’s a funny thing about city detectives. They think they’re the only ones can do any of this here deductive reasoning. They don’t realize that all that police work is just following a trail, and that a cowboy has to do more trail work in a day than a detective does in a month. This here Dewitt is goin’ to pose as a sportsman, but he’s going to be playing old eagle eye. And if you steal his thunder, it might not go so good.”
Hank grinned. “Me? I’m just a rough, tough old cow poke turned wrangler. How long’s it been since this Gridley guy got to hangin’ around?”
“Now, that,” the sheriff said, “is something Ed Harvel didn’t tell me about. You ain’t s’posed to know a thing about Gridley, Hank. And don’t treat this dude like a detective. You’re s’posed to know you’re lookin' for a cabin and a guy that’s missing, but this detective will probably be posin’ as a dude friend of the family.”
“That,” Hank retorted with a grin, “makes it easy...”
The woman who left the noon stage and entered the hotel was slender-waisted, smooth-hipped self-reliant. She seemed to have confidence in her ability to accomplish what she set out to do and to know exactly what it was she had in mind.
There was about her the stamp of the city. Obviously, she was in unfamiliar surroundings as she stood for a moment glancing up and down the street with its variegated assortment of frame buildings. Then she raised her eyes to look over the tops of the structures at the background of high mountains. At this elevation and in the dry air, the shadows, with their sharp lines of demarcation, seemed almost black, contrasted with the vivid glare of the sunlight. Rocky peaks stabbed upward into the deep blue of the sky, dazzling in their sun-bathed brilliance.
Abruptly conscious of the fact that the stage driver was watching her curiously, she walked smoothly and unhesitatingly into the hotel, crossed the lobby to the desk, nodded to Ray Fieldon, the proprietor, who had taken his place behind the counter to welcome incoming guests, and took the pen which he handed her.
For a brief moment she hesitated as the point of the pen was held over the registration card, and Ray Fieldon, knowing from long experience the meaning of that momentary hesitation, cocked a quizzical eyebrow.
Then the woman wrote in a firm, clear handwriting, “Marion Chandler, Crystal City.”
Ray Fieldon became sociably communicative. “Lived there long?” he asked, indicating the place she had marked as her residence.
Ray Fieldon kept that particular approach as an ace up his sleeve for women who registered under assumed names. Experience had taught him that there would be one of two responses. Either she would flush and become confused, or she would look at him with cold, haughty eyes and take refuge behind a mantle of dignity.
But this woman merely gave him a frank, disarming smile. Her steady hazel eyes showed no trace of embarrassment. She said, in a voice which was neither too rapid nor yet too hesitant, “Oh, I don’t really live there. It just happens to be my legal residence.” She went on calmly, “I'd like something with a bath, if you have it. I expect to be here only long enough to make arrangements to pack in to the Middle Fork country. Perhaps you know of some packer who is thoroughly reliable.”
Fieldon met those steady, friendly eyes and acknowledged defeat. “Well, now, ma’am, the best packer hereabouts is Hank Lucas. As a matter of fact, he’s starting in to the Middle Fork country tomorrow, taking a party in — a man and a woman. Just a chance you might get to team up with them — that is, if it was agreeable all around. You could save a lot of expense that way. Of course, you’d want to be sure that you were going to get along all right together. You might speak to Hank.”
She hesitated.
“The other two are due to arrive some time this afternoon,” Fieldon went on. “Man by the name of Dewitt and a woman named Adrian. If you want, I’ll speak to Hank.”
“I wish you would.”
“He's in town and I—”
Fieldon broke off as the door was pushed open, and Marion Chandler turned to survey the loose-jointed figure in tight-fitting Levi’s and high-heeled boots that entered the lobby.
“This is Hank now,” Fieldon said in an undertone.
“Seen anything of my dudes?” Hank called out.
“They weren’t on the stage. Guess they’re coming by car,” Fieldon answered. “Come on over here. Hank.”
Hank gave the young woman a swift, comprehensive glance, then swept off the sweat-stained sombrero to disclose dark curly hair, carelessly tumbled about his head. Fieldon performed introductions and explained the reason for them.
“Well, now,” Hank said, “it’s all right with me, but you’d better sort of get acquainted with those other people this afternoon, see how you like them, and then sound them out. It’s sort of embarrassing if you get out with people you don’t like. You can get cabin fever awful easy.”
“Cabin fever?” she asked, her voice and eyes showing amusement as she took in Hank’s picturesque sincerity.
“That’s right. We call it cabin fever hereabouts. Two people get snowed in a cabin all winter. Nothing to do but look at each other. Pretty quick they get completely fed up, then little things begin to irritate them, and first thing you know they’re feuding. Outsiders get the same feeling sometimes when they’re out on a camping trip with people they don't like.”
“Oh. I'm quite sure I'd get along with these other people.”
“Well, they’d ought to get along with you,” Hank said, with open admiration. “What you going in for? Fishing? Or hunting? Or...?”
She gave him the same smile she had given Fieldon when he had interrogated her about her residence. “I’m an amateur photographer. I want pictures of the Middle Fork country, and I'm particularly anxious to get pictures of people — people who have lived in that country for a long time. The old residents, you know. Types. Character studies.”
“Well, I guess that could be arranged,” Hank said, somewhat dubiously. “The country and the cabins are all right. The people you’d have to approach tactfully.”
She smiled. “You’d be surprised to find how tactful I am.”
Hank grinned. “Well, those people are due in this afternoon. You can sort of size them up.”
“What,” she asked, “are they going in for? Hunting? Or fishing?”
Hank said. “Well, now, up in this country people just don’t ask questions like that offhand.”
“You asked me.”
Hank shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes were pools of amusement. “Well, now, ma’am, you’ve just got to make allowances for me. I’m different.”
“I’m quite good at making allowances for people,” she said. “I’ve had lots of experience.”
“That’ll come in handy,” Hank told her.
“And since you’re the one who asks the questions,” she went on, “suppose you find out from the other people whether it’s all right for me to join the party.”
“After you’ve had a chance to look ’em over and see if it’s okay by you.” Hank said.
“I am quite sure it will be all right as far as I’m concerned.”
“You got a sleeping bag, ma’am?”
“Down at the express office — that is, it should be. I sent in most of my stuff by express a few days ago.”
“I’ll look it up,” Ray Fieldon said, and then he asked casually, “Sent from Crystal City?”
She met his eyes. “No,” she said. “Merely inquire for a package sent to Marion Chandler, care of the express office, if you will, please...”