She was carrying a quirt, and she started to raise it, then let it fall again and dangle from her wrist.

``I saw your fire,'' she said, speaking slowly, making an effort to control her anger. ``You could burn down this whole mountainside with a fire that size. It wouldn't matter to a fool like you. It would to me.''

``All right,'' Wilson said quickly. ``The fire's too big. And I appreciate the advice.''

He was losing patience again. An hour before, with the children asleep and nothing but the strange darkness, he would have appreciated company. She had helped him change his mind.

``I'm not advising you,'' she said. ``I'm telling you. That fire's too big. Let it burn down. And make sure it's out when you leave in the morning.''

He was taken aback. It took him a long time to compose himself.

``There's some mistake,'' he said finally. ``You're right about the fire. It's bigger than it has to be, though I don't see where it's doing any harm. But you're wrong about the rest of it. I'm not leaving in the morning. Why should I? I own the place.''

She showed her surprise by tightening the reins and moving the gelding around so that she could get a better look at his face. It didn't seem to tell her anything. She glanced around the clearing, taking in the wagon and the load of supplies and trappings scattered over the ground, the two kids, the whiteface bull that was chewing its cud just within the far reaches of the firelight. She studied it for a long time. Then she turned back to Wilson and smiled, and he wasn't quite sure what she meant by it.