leaned in the dusk to press his hands. Then as if divinely startled she flashed up to go to the window. Lynn hunched over the stove, hugging to his breast the fine emotion she roused in him. He must cling to that. Anne Vandergrift might be another of the influences come to help him rise.
“I’ll hit the hay now,” he said. “I’ll be gone tomorrow before you are awake. Out the back door, which I’ll lock. Don’t forget to be careful. I’ll be here by five. We’ll get supper and beat it for Boulder City. Good night, Anne.”
She murmured in reply, came softly back to him, as if to repeat her former impulsive action. But she checked it. The last ruddy glow of the fire shone upon her face and the speaking shadows where her eyes hid.
Lynn left her standing there and sought his bed behind the partition and the woodpile. The place was not half bad. He would be as snug as a bug in a rug. It was almost like camping out, a land of sport he had known so little and would have loved. Mice ran over his bed, friendly inmates of his cabin he had been fond of feeding. The distant hum of the mill filled his ears. Before he fell asleep he realized that the events of the last few days had incalculably heightened the spirit which had had its inception in his contact with Boulder Dam.
Work next day was something for Lynn to eat up. He was on the job every instant, keen as a whip, careful as always but of swifter and better judgment in swinging and emptying his loads. He felt glad that he did not have to part with this engine for a while. Before he had any idea of the nearness of the shift the whistle blew, and he was free.
The instant Anne opened the door and he met her eyes in the sunset light he knew she had been waiting for him. And there came a quick return of the pleasurable excitation that he had now to associate with her presence.
“Let’s step on it, Anne,” he said gaily. “It’ll be dark in half an hour. And you know we have a heavy date.”
“The day has been so long,” she replied, with a smile warming the wanness from her face.
“Anything doing to worry you?” he asked quickly.
“No. . . . It’s gone.”
The two of them speedily dispatched what was left of the food Lynn had brought back from Boulder. Dusk found them ready for the drive in, Anne quiet and intense with emotions that must have been happy, Lynn gay and voluble with a levity quite foreign to him. Nevertheless he was exceedingly vigilant about getting Anne out unseen by any laborers. As he drove by the mills he made her slide down in the seat until they had passed the zone.
“Sit up now, Gray Eyes,” he said.
And silently he thought he should kick himself into an appreciation of this rare treasure the winds of chance had blown into his life. Lynn’s gaiety suffered an eclipse with that thought. He drove on, giving the car all it could stand, keenly aware of the clean-cut pale profile close to his shoulder. In less than half an hour he turned across the main road into the one street of Boulder City that was finished. It was Sunday night, but just the same as Saturday or any other night. Boulder Dam activity never ceased. Night was the same as day. He parked the car before a dark building far down the street.
“Here we are, Anne. Swell ride, wasn’t it? And I once owned a Lincoln and had a girl who fitted the upholstery. . . . Hop out, child. This will be duck soup for us. . . . Take this money. There’s your store—five doors up. The big well-lighted store. Mine is here on this side—the one with the red sign. I’ll be in there if you don’t find me here in the car. As you belong to the feminine class you’ll be longest. Ha! Ha! So you can expect me to be waiting. . . . A last word. If any young men accost you—which is a cinch will happen—you be deaf and dumb! Get that!”
“I may not be deaf but I’ll be dumb,” she returned with an adorable smile. As she started she wheeled to whisper anxiously: “Don’t wait very long for me. Come after me!”
Lynn watched the graceful shape move swiftly across the street. Would she ever again be free of fear? What blackness of consciousness must have been forced upon Anne! Lynn cursed under his breath. If he ever got his hands on this Bellew it would be too late for one thug to pull that pocket gun stunt.
It did not take Lynn long to purchase an assortment of utensils, tablecloth, paper napkins and a generous supply of canned goods and vegetables, fruit, butter and bread for at least a week. These he carried out to the car and stowed away in the back seat. Then he paced up and down, close to the building, so that the numerous passers-by would not get a good look at him. Lynn regretted that his build, if not his looks, rendered him conspicuous.
Anne did not come. Lynn waited fifteen minutes, and that, counting the time he had taken for his purchases, seemed to be quite enough for Anne to accomplish her errand. But Lynn held himself in hand for another quarter of an hour. Then he made for the big store.
As he looked in the wide door of the well-lighted store he saw Anne laden with packages attempting to get by two young men. At that moment one of them, a tanned grinning boy like hundreds Lynn had seen, drew back with a parting shot to his comrade.
“Snowballs, Bo. Nothin’ doin’.”
But the other, a handsome bold-eyed fellow, persisted without the ingratiating gaiety that had set well upon the younger man.
“Where’d you spring from, Lovely?” he asked. “I never saw you before. Let me help you carry those bundles?”
Anne appeared not to hear him, but her gray eyes belied that with a darkening flush. As she swerved to get aside, the young man, apparently by accident, knocked some of her parcels from her arms. With profuse apologies he made as if to help Anne gather them up when Lynn intervened.
“Fade, you masher!” he said, and he shoved the fellow back with a hand that must have impressed its latent power. “I might take a crack at you.”
“No offense, sir,” returned the other, red in the face. “I was only offering to help the lady.”
Lynn turned to Anne, who appeared in the act of rising with her array of parcels. But now her poise was destroyed by a vivid blush.
“Tough luck, Sis, that you can’t enter a store without running into these ——” Lynn said and bent to relieve Anne of her burden. As they went out Lynn’s sharp ears registered some disturbing remarks.
“Bo, that was Biff Weston, the old All-American fullback,” rang out an excited voice. “I’ve seen him here before. . . . Did you get off lucky? I’m telling you.”
Anne heard Lynn’s caustic imprecation, and as they drew beyond the store she looked up. “I heard what he said. Biff Weston. What’d they call you that for?”
“I’m afraid I had a bad rep for biffing fellows. It sure was hard to keep from handing that guy one. But, Anne, please overlook it. I didn’t want to draw attention to you.”
“Oh! I wonder. Would I have been distressed if—if you—biffed him—as you call it? . . . Oh, dear, it makes me miserable. It enrages me!”
“What does, Anne?”
“I can’t go anywhere. I can’t poke my darned face outdoors that I’m not followed or annoyed or insulted—or—or kidnapped.”
“Child, if you were older and vainer you’d get a tremendous kick out of that. You’ve got what every woman would give her soul for. You’ve got what Helen of Troy had.”
