Still, Taylor was not the type of man who permits the imminence of discord to disturb his mental equanimity, and he grinned into the growing darkness of the plains with a grimly humorous twist to his lips that promised interesting developments should Carrington oppose him. When he again looked out of the aperture in the curtains screening the smoking-compartment from the aisle he saw the porter pass, carrying bedclothing. Later he saw the porter returning, smilingly inspecting a bill. After an interval the porter stuck his head through the curtains and surveyed him with a flashing grin: “Is you ready to retiah, boss?” he asked. A quarter of an hour later Taylor was alone in his berth, gazing at his reflection in the glass while he undressed. “You wouldn’t have the nerve to think she is interested in you, would you—you homely son-of-a-gun?” he queried of his reflection. “Why, no, she ain’t, of course,” he added; “no woman could be interested in you. You’ve been all day looking like a half-baked dude—and no woman is interested in dudes!” Carefully removing the contents of the several pockets of the despised wearing apparel in which he had suffered for many days, he got into his nightclothes and rang for the porter. When the latter appeared with his huge grin, Taylor gave him the offensive clothing, bundled together to form a large ball. “George,” he said seriously, almost solemnly, “I’m tired of being a dude. Some day I may decide to be a dude; but not now. Take these duds and save them until I ask for them. If you offer them to me before I ask for them, I’ll perforate you sure as hell!” He produced a big Colt pistol from somewhere, and as the weapon glinted in the light the porter’s eyes bulged and he backed away, gingerly holding the bundle of clothing. “Yassir, boss—yassir! I shuah won’t mention it till you does, boss!” When the porter had gone, Taylor grinned into the glass. “I sure have felt just what I looked,” he said. Then he got into his berth and dreamed all night of a girl whose mocking eyes seemed to say: “Well, do you think you have profited by listening?” “Why, sure,” he retorted, in his dreams; “I’ve seen you, ain’t I?” CHAPTER III—THE SERPENT TRAIL Marion Harlan did not dream of Quinton Taylor, though her last waking thought was of him, and when she opened her eyes in the morning it was to see him as he had sat in the seat behind Carrington and her uncle, his eyes wide with interest, or astonishment—or some emotion that she could not define—looking directly at her. She had been certain then, and still was certain that he had been feigning sleep, that he had been listening to the talk carried on between her uncle and Carrington. Why had he listened? That interrogation absorbed her thoughts as she dressed.