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traps
should be placed. As he rode, he had also kept his eyes
open for a settlement or post in the territory. On the
third day he had spotted a small settlement only ten or
twelve miles from where they were camped. It lay at the
foot of a valley and consisted of a tavern-store combination and a whorehouse. The discovery of whores had
spread his lips in a wide grin. His men would shout at
that news.
    The stallion reached the top of a steep hill, and Matt
reined it in to breathe it. Sitting the horse quietly, Matt
looked down over the valley that was rapidly being
enveloped in the dusk. Up here on the hill he could still
see the sun, but below all was in shadow.
    It's pretty country, he thought, letting his gaze travel
over the frost-tipped maples that glistened in the last
rays of sun. But the blue sparkle of the river winding
through the valley outshone it all. His eyes lingered on
the stream, and he wondered if the fish bit well in its fast-running waters. He would have to drop a line in it
one of these days.

    As he was about to move on, Matt's gaze was caught
by a movement along the water's edge. He leaned forward, peering intently, then grinned. Evidently the fish
did bite. Someone sat there now, dangling a line in
the water. Since the fisherman was so close to their
camp, he would ride down and introduce himself, he
decided. It never hurt to be on good terms with the
people around you.
    The stallion moved soundlessly over the needlestrewn ground until they were almost upon the figure.
Then the horse's hoof struck a rock, and the figure
jumped and gave a startled cry.
    Matt brought Sam to a halt, staring. A girl, wild and
ragged looking, had sprung to her feet and crouched,
like an animal at bay. Through a snarled mass of hair,
startling blue eyes glared fiercely at him. The softness
in him that seldomed surfaced was touched. The poor,
woods queer girl was half frightened out of her wits.
She had probably lived her entire life in this wilderness,
and the solitude must have turned her strange.
    He smiled kindly at her, speaking softly, "Don't be
afraid, girl. I just want to introduce myself. My name is
Matt Barton, and I'm a new neighbor."
    If the girl understood him, she gave no indication,
but only continued to watch him with threatening eyes
through her matted hair. Matt wondered if the dirty
face had ever seen soap and water. Giving an impatient
grunt, he made to swing from the saddle. As though his
action had released a spring in her, the girl gathered her
skirt in slender brown fingers and sprinted down the
rock-strewn shore. His foot still in the stirrup, Matt
stared after the flashing brown legs in bewilderment.
Shaking his head, he started to swing his leg back over
the mount, muttering, "Let the wild thing go."
    He threw her one last glance, and at that moment the
girl's feet slipped from under her. He waited for her to rise and flee on. Several moments passed and she didn't
stir. A worried frown creased his forehead. She lay
strangely quiet with her arms flung wide.

    Pushing back his coonskin, Matt scratched his head.
What should he do? Should he just go off and leave her,
or should he check her for possible injuries? In the
tavern that day he had found the Kentucky men
friendly but unusually proud and touchy. He didn't
want to do the wrong thing and have a pack of them on
his trail.
    Once again he stepped back to the ground. Hell, it
wasn't right to go off and leave her lying there. She
could be seriously hurt.
    Trailing the lines, he walked over to the inert figure
and stared down at her. He saw at once the large flat
rock her head had struck. He hunkered down and
shook her shoulder. "Hey, girl, wake up. Are you all
right?"
    She made no sound, and the thought leaped into his
mind that she was dead. He sat back on his heels.
Would he be blamed? "What in the hell am I supposed
to do with you, you dirty girl?" he muttered aloud.
    Looking back down at