weird yarns I used to disbelieve—until I came West."
"Well," said she, appraising Gillette between half-closed lids, "he hasn't changed a whit except to grow more sober. His native heath agrees well with him."
"Oh, he's built for ruling his kingdom," murmured Lispenard. His smile grew somewhat shorter. "I could always whip him—until I touched him too hard. Had more weight, more science, a cooler head than he ever dreamed of having. But when I stung him a few times—"
"The specimen being thus dissected, we will now pass to other things," drawled Tom. "Render your verdict on Blondy."
"Quite fit—quite the same debonair heart disturber."
"Thanks," said the Blond Giant; he rose, made a profound bow, and started out. "But you see only the surface calm. On my honour, Kit, I'm a rough and tough character; a seething furnace roars beneath this placid mug. Oh, you have no idea."
She waited until he was outside before raising her palms in plain distaste. "Ugh! How he has hardened."
"Pay no attention to what he tells you, Kit," said Tom.
"I see it!" she flashed back. "Once that boldness fascinated me. Now it's actually repulsive. How thick his chin is—how heavy his eyes!"
Gillette doubled his hands, looking somberly at her. "Why did you come?"
"I like that, sir! If I am not welcome..."
"Don't fence with me, Kit. You do it too easily."
She seemed half inclined to be sober, yet not for a moment did she allow the tantalizing smile to desert her. "I told my father I needed a change of climate. He was shocked—oh, very much so. But I have a little Ballard stubbornness in me, you know. That was my professed reason. But one day I ran across Jimmy Train, and he showed me a letter you had written him. So I came to plead."
"Kit!"
"Oh, I have no modesty left. My suitors are all married—I grow old and lonely."
The colored cook stepped inside the place and cast one comprehensive glance at the pair, vanishing with a twist of his body. "Boss sho' looks 'sif he got a mizry," he murmured. Quagmire, loitering by the corral motioned him to stay away from the house; Old Mose's white teeth flashed.
Gillette's fingers were laced together; he sat forward in his chair, studying the floor, and the girl noted how his hair curled back from the temples as well as the dogged and resolute set of his lips. And for the first time in her life she lost faith in her ability to command men. No hint of that doubt, however, crept into her half-bantering words. She was relaxed, her head thrown back, looking across the interval with a slanting gaze—such a look as he had once said distinguished her from all other women. How was it he did not notice it now? And, fearing his silence, she broke through it "I would give more than a penny for your thoughts, Tommy."
"It's good to see you again, Kit. But, my dear, you must not drag any more string across the floor for me to grasp at."
"Meaning—I have played with you?"
The answer was so sudden, so vehement that it startled her, "Can you doubt it—can you consider it anything else?"
"We all make mistakes, Tommy. Perhaps I—"
"No, don't say it that way, Kit. You are fencing again. Listen, my dear, I have thought of you all along the trail. Every day, every night. Never a sunset or a sunrise but what your picture wasn't somewhere in it. Once there was a stampede, a man was killed, and even when I saw the boys throwing mud over him, I thought of you. Do you see? Lord, I couldn't help myself. I wanted you. Up until the moment I stepped inside this cabin I wanted you."
"But, Tommy, here I am."
He broke through with a swift move of his hand, and to her that was another mark of the change in him. Once he would have been quieted at her least whisper; and now he commanded her not to interrupt.
"Let me finish. What have I said? That I wanted you until the very moment I saw you sitting there. But, Kit, you come just as I've finished the battle. You bring all that—that damnable misery with you. Misery! Well, you must not torture me any more. I've put myself beyond it. I've licked the wounds dry. They're still in here, understand, my dear. But they're dry. And I won't have 'em opened again."
Her smile was brilliant, a little as if the light of her eyes passed through a film. "You are blunt, Tommy!"
"I've gone back to the blanket," he muttered, lowering his head once more.
"What does that mean?"
"It means when an Indian has gotten his white man education he goes back to the reservation, throws away all his civilized clothes, and takes up the old ways."
"You are no Indian, Tommy."
"No? They called me the barbarian once. It still sticks. I'm in my own land. I've thrown away every blessed thing the East gave me. Chucked it overboard. The old gods are mine. And, by the Lord, Kit, I'm beginning to live once more."
"Have you chucked away everything, Tommy?" she asked quite softly. "Everything?"
He looked up to her; his eyes betrayed the uncertainty in him, and the girl, at this unconscious revelation, let her whole body go limp; laughter tinkled in her throat. She bent forward, hands making little motions in her lap, and the laughter died. "Tommy, supposing I haven't come to torture you? Supposing..."
"You gave me my answer once," said he stubbornly. "You've had your sport."
"Oh, why did you have to be so deadly serious about it all the while? My dear, did you think to pursue and win in a day? Don't you suppose a woman has to be shown—to be convinced?"
"And to be amused," he added. "Remember, Kit, I'm not open to torture any longer."
But she was wise with Eve's wisdom; she had seen him falter. So she turned the conversation in her own inimitable way. "Tom, I heard about your father. Did they ever catch the man?"
"Not yet."
"But they will," she reassured him. "The law will get him." There was something so grimly sardonic on his face that she asked, "What is it?"
"The law out here expects a man to take care of his own troubles. I shall get him—I shall kill him."
"Why, Tom, isn't that—isn't it murder?"
"I told you I had gone back to the old gods, didn't I?"
She bit into her lip; a tinge of colour stood against the soft whiteness of her flesh. "I thought it was only woman's privilege to be unfathomable, Tommy. I'm sorry I mentioned it."
The colored cook's shadow fell athwart the door again, and Tom nodded at him. Presently the grub pans and the dishes were on the table. One by one the men of the outfit came dismally, sheepishly in. Tom put Christine at the head of the table and amid a dead silence introduced her.
"Boys, this is Christine Ballard of New York. She has come on a visit. Now, behave yourselves. I have already pointed out to her which of you are the lady killers. So beware."
The charge was so manifestly outrageous that the agitation only increased;
