“I made a bet that I’d marry the first girl who came to town. I was on the watch and pretty drunk. When she came—well, I got Padre Marcos and tried to bully her into marrying me.” “Oh, Lord!” Florence gasped. “It’s worse than I feared.... Gene, Al will kill you.” “That’ll be a good thing,” replied the cowboy, dejectedly. “Gene Stewart, it certainly would, unless you turn over a new leaf,” retorted Florence. “But don’t be a fool.” And here she became earnest and appealing. “Go away, Gene. Go join the rebels across the border—you’re always threatening that. Anyhow, don’t stay here and ruin any chance of stirring Al up. He’d kill you just the same as you would kill another man for insulting your sister. Don’t make trouble for Al. That’d only make sorrow for her, Gene.” The subtle import was not lost upon Madeline. She was distressed because she could not avoid hearing what was not meant for her ears. She made an effort not to listen, and it was futile. “Flo, you can’t see this a man’s way,” he replied, quietly. “I’ll stay and take my medicine.” “Gene, I could sure swear at you or any other pig-head of a cowboy. Listen. My brother-in-law, Jack, heard something of what I said to you last night. He doesn’t like you. I’m afraid he’ll tell Al. For Heaven’s sake, man, go down-town and shut him up and yourself, too.” Then Madeline heard her come into the house and presently rap on the door and call softly: “Miss Hammond. Are you awake?” “Awake and dressed, Miss Kingsley. Come in.” “Oh! You’ve rested. You look so—so different. I’m sure glad. Come out now. We’ll have breakfast, and then you may expect to meet your brother any moment.” “Wait, please. I heard you speaking to Mr. Stewart. It was unavoidable. But I am glad. I must see him. Will you please ask him to come into the parlor a moment?” “Yes,” replied Florence, quickly; and as she turned at the door she flashed at Madeline a woman’s meaning glance. “Make him keep his mouth shut!” Presently there were slow, reluctant steps outside the front door, then a pause, and the door opened. Stewart stood bareheaded in the sunlight. Madeline remembered with a kind of shudder the tall form, the embroidered buckskin vest, the red scarf, the bright leather wristbands, the wide silver-buckled belt and chaps. Her glance seemed to run over him swift as lightning. But as she saw his face now she did not recognize it. The man’s presence roused in her a revolt. Yet something in her, the incomprehensible side of her nature, thrilled in the look of this splendid dark-faced barbarian. “Mr. Stewart, will you please come in?” she asked, after that long pause. “I reckon not,” he said. The hopelessness of his tone meant that he knew he was not fit to enter a room with her, and did not care or cared too much. Madeline went to the door. The man’s face was hard, yet it was sad, too. And it touched her.