Westcott barely had time to swing the girl to safety as the tornado flew past.
"The drunken fool!" he muttered quietly.

"A puncher riding for camp.
There will be more up ahead probably." His little act of heroism drew the man strangely near to Miss Donovan, and as they hurried along in the silent night she felt that above all he was dependable, as if, too, she had known him months, aye years, instead of a scant hour.

And in this strange country she needed a friend.
"Now that I've laid bare my past," he was saying, "don't you think you might tell me why you are here ?" The girl stiffened.

To say that she was from the New York _Star_ would close many avenues of information to her.

No, the thing to do was to adopt some "stall" that would enable her to idle about as much as she chose.