"Yes," said Dixie Lee, "it is. And while I wish to congratulate you upon your explanation I want to inform you, Mr. Bowles, that right here is where we part. You're looking for the Wild West, and here she is with her hair down. If you are hunting experiences these Chula Vista boys will certainly accommodate you; but from this time on, Mr. Bowles, we are strangers. We don't know each other, do you understand? If what you say is true, you followed me simply to find the Far West. This is it. We're quits, then; and I shall have to ask you, as a gentleman, not to annoy me further. You may be all right--back in New York--but out here it's different and I don't want to have the folks joshing me about you. So I'll bid you farewell, Mr. Bowles, and thank you kindly for carrying up my baggage--but don't you dare come around the Bat Wing Ranch, or I'll tell the boys to kill you!" She grabbed up her baggage as she spoke and hurried ahead, and when Mr. Bowles stepped into the hotel some minutes later she was as distant as an ivory goddess. Or a bronze goddess, to be exact, for the sun and wind had caressed the fair cheeks of Dixie May until they were as brown and ruddy as a berry, and even the steam heat of a New York apartment could only reduce their coloring. She seemed a goddess indeed to Bowles as she lingered beside the stove, her smooth, capable hands bared to the glow of the flames, and her body buoyant with the grace of youth; but the laughing brown eyes which had become the mirrors of his life were turned away now and all the world was changed. The bottle-nosed proprietor came shuffling in from the bar and silently handed him a pen; then, without looking at the name that was signed, he wrote a number after it and handed his guest a key. "Baggage?" he inquired as Mr. Bowles stood helplessly to one side. "Oh, yes!" said Bowles, recovering himself with an effort. "Here are the checks. My trunks will be in on a later train. Have them sent up, won't you?" "Sample room?" queried the hotel-keeper brusquely. "Beg pardon?" "D'ye want 'em put in the sample room?" snarled the proprietor, outraged at having to bandy words with the despised Easterner. "The sample room?" repeated Mr. Bowles, now thoroughly mystified. "Why, no--why should I?" At this final evidence of imbecility a mighty spasm of rage came over the proprietor, and as he struggled to regain his calm Dixie Lee suddenly clapped a handkerchief to her mouth and made a dash for the dining-room. The paroxysm passed and with an air of wearied indulgence the proprietor explained and disappeared. "All right!" he grumbled. "Guess you know your own business. Thought you was a travelin' man."