Damita rose and brushed the straw from her dress and hair. She had slept fitfully and found upon waking that she was still angry at Yancy Devereaux. The memory came flashing back, of how she had clung to him and how he had turned away from her, and it left a bitter taste in her mouth and in her spirit. “Yes,” she said in a steady voice. “I’m all right.” As Damita stood, Yancy handed her her coat and said, “You’d better wear this. It’s still damp, but it’ll cut the wind.” She took the coat and slipped into it. When they stepped outside, he glanced at the sky. “We’ll try this road. Surely we’ll find something.” “All right.” Yancy started to speak, then, seeing the adamant look in her eyes, he said merely, “Let’s go. There are fresh wagon tracks along here. We ought to find a house somewhere.” Ten minutes later, they rounded a bend in the road, and Yancy said, “Look, there’s a place.” Damita followed his pointing finger and saw a house built up on a slight hill.
