the tone. “A plainsman, who has punched cattle, but my last job was government scout.”
“You look as though you might be more than that,” she said slowly.
The man flushed, his lips pressing tightly together. “Well, I—I may have been,” he confessed unwillingly. “I started out all right, but somehow I reckon I just went adrift. It's a habit in this country.”
Apparently those first words of comment had left her lips unthinkingly, for she made no attempt to reply; merely stood there directly facing him, her clear eyes gazing frankly into his own. He seemed to actually see her now for the first time, fairly—a supple, slender figure, simply dressed, with wonderfully excessive brown eyes, a perfect wealth of dark hair, a clear complexion with slight olive tinge to it, a strong, intelligent face, not strictly beautiful, yet strangely attractive, the forehead low and broad, the nose straight, the lips full and inclined to smile. Suddenly a vague remembrance brought recognition.
“Why, I know you now.”
“Indeed!” the single word a note of undisguised surprise.
“Yes; I thought you looked oddly familiar all the time, but couldn't for the life of me connect up. You're Christie Maclaire.”
“Am I?” her eyes filled with curiosity.
“Of course you are. You needn't be afraid of me if you want it kept secret, but I know you just the same. Saw you at the 'Gaiety' in Independence, maybe two months ago. I went three times, mostly on your account. You've got a great act, and you can sing too.”
She stood in silence, still looking fixedly at him, her bosom rising and falling, her lips parted as if to speak. Apparently she did not know what to do, how to act, and was thinking swiftly.
“Mr. Keith,” she said, at last in decision, “I am going to ask you to blot that all out—to forget that you even suspect me of being Christie Maclaire, of the Gaiety.”
“Why, certainly; but would you explain?”
“There is little enough to explain. It is sufficient that I am here alone with you. Whether I wish to or not, I am compelled to trust myself to your protection. You may call me Christie Maclaire, or anything else you please; you may even think me unworthy respect, but you possess the face of a gentleman, and as such I am going to trust you—I must trust you. Will you accept my confidence on these terms?”
Keith did not smile, nor move. Weak from hunger and fatigue, he leaned wearily against the wall. Nevertheless that simple, womanly appeal awoke all that was strong and sacrificing within him, although her words were so unexpected that, for the moment, he failed to realize their full purport. Finally he straightened up.
“I—I accept any terms you desire,” he gasped weakly, “if—if you will only give one return.”
“One return?—what?”
“Food; we have eaten nothing for sixty hours.” Her face, which had been so white, flushed to the hair, her dark eyes softening.
“Why, of course; sit down. I ought to have known from your face. There is plenty here—such as it is—only you must wait a moment.”
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