Harry pawed for his mustache.
"On a night like this?
And what the bloody 'ell is she doing 'ere, any'ow ?" "Search me!" The bucket was at the top now.
A signal from above, and Fairchild lowered it, to extend a hand and to aid the girl to the ground, looking at her with wondering, eager eyes.
In the light of the carbide torch, she was the same boyish appearing little person he had met on the Denver road, except that snow had taken the place of dust now upon the whipcord riding habit, and the brown hair which caressed the corners of her eyes was moist with the breath of the blizzard.

Some way Fairchild found his voice, lost for a moment.
"Are--are you in trouble ?" "No." She smiled at him.
"But out on a night like this--in a blizzard.

How did you get up here ?" She shrugged her shoulders.
"I walked.

Oh," she added, with a smile, "it did n't hurt me any.

The wind was pretty stiff--but then I 'm fairly strong.