``You own this place?'' she said, and her tone had softened until it was almost friendly. ``You bought it?''

``From a man in St. Louis,'' Wilson said. ``Jake Carwood. Maybe you know him.''

The girl laughed. ``I know him. I ought to. My father ran him off here six years ago.''

Wilson didn't say anything. He stood watching the girl, wondering what was coming next. She had picked up the quirt and was twirling it around her wrist and smiling at him.

``Carwood didn't tell you that,'' she said.

``No,'' Wilson said. ``But it's understandable. It's not the kind of thing that a man would be proud of. And it doesn't make any difference. He sold me a clear title. I have it with me, right here. If you want to see'' --

``Never mind,'' she said sternly. ``It wouldn't matter to my father, and not to me. I meant what I said about that fire. Be sure it's out when you leave. That's all. I'll let you go back to doing the dishes now.''

It was meant to insult him, and didn't quite succeed. He took the reins just below the bit and held them firmly, and it was his turn to smile now. ``I don't mind washing dishes now and then,'' he said pleasantly. ``It doesn't hurt. It might hurt you, though. Somebody might mistake you for a woman.''

He meant to say more, but he never got the chance. She was quick. She brought the quirt down, slashing it across his cheek, and he tried to step back. She swung the quirt again, and this time he caught her wrist and pulled her out of the saddle.