Chiffon Scarf by Mignon Good Eberhart Page A

speculation, although Noel, with something enigmatic in his expression, went forward to where the pilot, too, was stretching his legs and smoking.
    Eden looked rather curiously at the pilot as he spoke to Noel. He was big, young and would be thickset—almost a bull of a man now, with his sturdy thick neck rising from the open collar of his leather coat. He had very thick, strong-looking brown hair; his face was on massive, heavy planes—with a touch of the Slav in his somewhat slanted eyes and rather cruelly curved mouth. He smiled a little, showing extremely white and squarely set teeth. She couldn’t hear what they said but he shook his head with a helpless gesture and pointed to the plane and he and Noel walked around it and out of sight.
    It was no good waiting in the plane. Eden got out, too, throwing back her face to take in great gulps of the incredibly clear air. Dorothy followed after a while and Averill. There was not much to see—rather there was much, for they could see for miles to the rim of mountains which enclosed them. But off toward the left where Jim had disappeared was a strip of brush and cottonwoods and a cluster of barns and corrals. Behind them and at some distance there appeared to be an area of green—green grass, green shrubs, green pines—and in the middle of it a house, dimly seen beyond the huge cottonwoods.
    There was about the place, then and forever to Eden, an extraordinary feeling of remoteness.
    New York seemed to be on a different and distant planet. Even St. Louis belonged to a world irrevocably removed. The mountains rimming the horizon became the very limits of existence.
    For an instant it seemed to her that there was promise in that distance and division from things past; as if a new life might newly begin for her there.
    That, of course, was fancy. It didn’t take Pace’s figure, trudging heavily across her vision, to remind her of it.
    But the feeling of fatefulness remained.
    It was half an hour before Jim returned and he was not alone. A tall, lean, lazy-looking man accompanied him, who despite his lazy, loose-jointed walk still managed to cover distance very rapidly.
    “This,” said Jim, nearing the little cluster about the plane, “is Mr. Sloane.”
    “P. H.,” murmured Mr. Sloane, looking at them with light, extremely keen blue eyes which were completely surrounded by a fine network of wrinkles. His face was brown and hawklike in the sharpness of its features; he removed an enormous Stetson hat—a ten-gallon hat, Eden was later to learn.
    “It’s awfully good of you,” said Noel.
    “Glad to have visitors,” said P. H. Sloane pleasantly.
    Jim introduced them separately. When Eden put out her hand the rancher took it briefly, not too heartily, gave her one smiling, brief look and turned at once to speak to Creda. Yet, Eden thought suddenly, he’ll know me again—he’d know me anywhere again and remember me and every circumstance of our meeting.
    He wore a khaki-colored shirt that was open upon a lean sunbrowned neck, khaki riding breeches that looked worn and almost white with washing and laced high boots. A typical rancher, she thought—and then wondered if all ranchers had such extraordinarily observant eyes.
    “You’re up early,” said P. H. Sloane. “Well, now if you’ll come along to the house I’ll see you get some breakfast. Don’t bother about your bags. I’ll send a couple of boys for them.”
    “Oh, we’ll not need our bags,” said Averill swiftly. “It will be only two or three hours at the most.”
    “Well, that’s all right, too,” said the rancher. “Glad to have you, I’m sure. But it’s no trouble for the boys to bring your bags up to the house. You might want ’em. This way, if you please. It’s not much of a walk. There’s no need for anybody to stay with the plane. Nobody’ll touch it.”
    “Mr. Sloane,” said Averill, “exactly where are we?”
    The rancher surveyed her rather quizzically for a moment before he