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who might be watching him, but he wasn’t going to stand by and let her try to erect the fallen tent by herself. Night was coming on and she’d have no shelter.
    She was pulling forlornly at the pile of canvas when he came up behind her.
    â€œCanvas takes on a lot of weight when it’s wet,” he said, pushing her gently aside. “Let me.”
    Her dark eyes flashed to his face and she brushed aside a sheaf of black hair that had fallen across her cheek.
    â€œYou shouldn’t,” she whispered tensely, glancing at Sanlee’s broad back just disappearing in the brush some distance away.
    â€œYou asked me for help,” Lassiter reminded her as he lifted a ridge pole and the canvas.
    â€œBut I didn’t,” she protested.
    â€œI read it plain as day. Please help me.”
    She shrugged and said, “Perhaps I did. I was upset.” She stood aside, arms folded, her teeth clamped so that he could see the neat white row they made—not a smile, but a grimace.
    Thirty yards away a gray-bearded man hunched over the cook fire was watching him intently. He was the only crew member in camp. Sanlee and the others had returned to the business of roundup.
    It took some twisting and stretching, but finally Lassiter got the girl’s tent smoothed out. Soon he was grunting as he lifted the ridge pole with the full weight of canvas on it. When he had the tent righted, he went around it hammering in stakes with a flat rock.
    â€œThank you,” the girl said without looking at him. She dropped to her knees and crawled into the tent. She lowered the flaps for privacy.
    Lassiter led his horse over to the cook fire. The gray-bearded man was stirring the contents of a pot simmering on the fire. He had picked up the pots and pans scattered about by the raging bull.
    â€œFirst time I ever heard of a woman at roundup camp,” Lassiter said tentatively.
    The old man put down a large spoon. His eyes were bright in a seamed face. He jerked at the brimof an old slouch hat and peered into the pot of beans and beef. Then he threw a few sticks of wood on the fire, which instantly burst into flame. A fresh column of smoke was pumped into the sky where it flattened out under the overcast.
    â€œBrad Sanlee seen what you done,” the old man said, not looking up. “He won’t like it worth a damn.”
    â€œNot even you figured to give her a hand with that tent.”
    â€œI lived as long as I have by knowin’ which side of the creek to wet my feet in.”
    â€œJust who is she, anyway?”
    The old man limped over to the chuck wagon as if to indicate he’d said all he intended to on the subject.
    Lassiter looked back at the tent. There was no sign of the girl.
    Then he was back at the holding grounds with its mass of cattle, the branding fires, the shouting amidst sounds of pain and rage from the animals. Although it seemed chaotic with men running about, calves squealing, it was organized. Every man knew his job and did it.
    Soon most of Lassiter’s slim crew were drifting in for the evening meal. Others were helping guard the herd to keep it from stampeding. With nearly four thousand head of nervous cattle, it would take only a minor disturbance to set them into a panic run.
    As Lassiter slumped wearily to the ground, he thought of the girl. She was pretty enough even in an old shirt and boy’s breeches, her attire for the day. What would she be like with her hair put up and wearing a clean dress? He thought about it. That she was Sanlee’s prisoner, one way or another, was evident. He thought of the last war that hadbeen fought to free slaves. Apparently, the message hadn’t as yet reached Sanlee. Lassiter’s mouth hardened as he recalled her strained face when mouthing her plea for help.
    Suddenly, he was striding toward his horse.
    â€œTime to eat, Lassiter,” Luis Herrera called to him from the shadows.
    â€œBe back in a few