She got up, too, and held out her hand to him. "Thank you," she said. "You have made the day very short for me. It would have been lonesome here, without aunt and uncle." "I saw them goin'," he informed her. "And," she continued, smiling, "I am going to ask you to come again, very soon, to teach me more about shooting." "Any time, ma'am." He still held her hand. And now he looked at it with a blush, and dropped it gently. Her face reddened a little too, for now she realized that he had held her hand for quite a while, and she had made no motion to withdraw it. Their eyes met eloquently. The gaze held for an instant, and then both laughed, as though each had seen something in the eyes of the other that had been concealed until this moment. Then Ruth's drooped. Randerson smiled and stepped off the porch to get his pony. A little later, after waving his hand to Ruth from a distance, he rode away, his mind active, joy in his heart. "You're a knowin' horse, Patches," he said confidentially to the pony. "If you are, what do you reckon made her ask so many questions?" He gulped over a thought that came to him. "She was shootin' at the target, Patches," he mused. "But do you reckon she was aimin' at me?" CHAPTER XVIII THE GUNFIGHTER Red Owen, foreman of the Flying W in place of Tom Chavis, resigned, was stretched out on his blanket, his head propped up with an arm, looking at the lazy, licking flames of the campfire. He was whispering to Bud Taylor, named by Randerson to do duty as straw boss in place of the departed Pickett, and he was referring to a new man of the outfit who had been hired by Randerson about two weeks before because the work seemed to require the services of another man, and he had been the only applicant. The new man was reclining on the other side of the fire, smoking, paying no attention to any of the others around him. He was listening, though, to the talk, with a sort of detached interest, a half smile on his face, as though his interest were that of scornful amusement. He was of medium height, slender, dark. He was taciturn to the point of monosyllabic conversation, and the perpetual, smiling sneer on his face had gotten on Red Owen's nerves. "Since he's joined the outfit, he's opened his yap about three times a day--usual at grub time, when if a man loosens up at all, he'll loosen up then," Red told Taylor, glaring his disapproval. "I've got an idea that I've seen the cuss somewheres before, but I ain't able to place him." "His mug looks like he was soured on the world--especial himself. If I had a twistin' upper lip like that, I'd sure plant some whiskers on it. A mustache, now, would hide a lot of the hyena in him."