“Indeed?” A slow ache of perversity began to travel along Grant’s spine. He had no love for a man who will manhandle women. “Indeed. The agent at El Paso sold me mine yesterday.” “Ef I could see youah ticket,” the porter began feebly. “You couldn’t,” Grant snapped. “Perhaps the Pullman conductor may.” A cloud began gathering over the finely chiselled features of the Spaniard. His toy moustache went up. He spoke to the porter: “The señor is not what we call _sympatico_. Have the kindness to fetch the conductor.” The darkey disappeared. Grant turned to look out of the window, ignoring completely the standing figure in the aisle. But he did not ignore the reflection a trick of the sun cast on the double glass of the window. He saw there just the faint aura of a fiery head which refused to turn, though the compelling gaze of the standing man strove mightily to command it. Faintly in the magic of the dusty glass was carried to this bystander, whose neutrality already was considerably strained, the silent battle of wills. The Pullman conductor bustled up to Grant’s seat. To him the Spaniard appealed, offering the evidence of the berth check. Grant vouchsafed no comment when he passed his own up for inspection. The man in blue compared them. “Some ball-up somewhere,” he grunted. Then to Grant: “When was this ticket sold to you?” “Yesterday morning at ten-fifteen o’clock,” came the prompt answer. The waspish Spanish person admitted he had purchased his only a minute before the train started. The conductor waved at Grant. “Then I guess the seat belongs to this gentleman. I’ll have to find you one in another car.” “But, señor, I have special reason for remaining in this car.” The Spaniard’s carefully restrained wrath began to bubble over. Grant looked up at him and smiled frankly. “So have I,” he declared levelly. The other’s eyes snapped and his lips lifted over small white teeth in what was meant to be a smile. “Señor,” he began with a shaking voice, “your courtesy deserves remembrance. I hope some day it may be my pleasure to show you equal consideration.” “Until then--_au revoir_,” Grant caught him up. With the porter preceding him, the loser walked down the aisle to the far door of the car. As he passed the seat where the girl was he half turned with a sulky smile. But it was lost. She was looking out at the procession of the telegraph poles. Grant, catching this final passage in the little comedy, grinned. “There’s going to be lots of paprika in this Western hike,” joyfully he assured himself--“or do we call it chili?” CHAPTER II A GIRL NAMED BENICIA