Nash stood in the shadow of the doorway watching that lean, handsome face with the suggestion of mockery in the eyes and the trace of sternness around the thin lips. Not a formidable figure by any means, but since his experiences of the past few days, Nash was grown extremely thoughtful. What he finally thought he caught in this most unusual tenderfoot was a certain alertness of a more or less hair-trigger variety. Even now as he sat at ease at the table, one elbow resting lightly upon it, apparently enwrapped in the converse of Sally Fortune, Nash had a consciousness that the other might be on his feet and in the most distant part of the room within a second. What he noted in the second instant of his observation was that Sally was not at all loath to waste her time on the stranger. She was eating with a truly formidable conventionality of manner, and a certain grace with which she raised the ponderous coffee cup, made of crockery guaranteed to resist all falls, struck awe through the heart of the cowpuncher. She was bent on another conquest, beyond all doubt, and that she would not make it never entered the thoughts of Nash. He set his face to banish a natural scowl and advanced with a good-natured smile into the room. "Hello!" he called. "It's old Steve!" sang out Sally, and whirling from her chair, she advanced almost at a run to meet him, caught him by both hands, and led him to a table next to that at which she had been sitting. It was as gracefully done as if she had been welcoming a brother, but Nash, knowing Sally, understood perfectly that it was only a play to impress the eye of Bard. Nevertheless he was forced to accept it in good part. "My old pal, Steve Nash," said Sally, "and this is Mr. Anthony Bard." Just the faintest accent fell on the "Mr.," but it made Steve wince. He rose and shook hands gravely with the tenderfoot. "I stopped at Butler's place down the street," he said, "and been hearin' a pile about a little play you made a while ago. It was about time for somebody to call old Butch's bluff." "Bluff?" cried Sally indignantly. "Bluff?" queried Bard, with a slight raising of the eyebrows. "Sure--bluff. Butch wasn't any more dangerous than a cat with trimmed claws. But I guess you seen that?" He settled down easily in his chair just as Sally resumed her place opposite Bard. "Steve," she said, with a quiet venom, "that bluff of his has been as good as four-of-a-kind with you for a long time. I never seen you make any play at Butch." He returned amiably: "Like to sit here and have a nice social chat, Sally, but I got to be gettin' back to the ranch, and in the meantime, I'm sure hungry."