"Yes, mom, it is. It's owin' to the horse yeh've got, an' yer cinch. Yeh'll see a heap better'n that this afternoon right on this here flat. An' would yeh be layin' over fer the dance tonight, mom?"
The abrupt question was even more disconcerting than the compelling directness of his gaze.
For an instant, the girl hesitated as her eyes swept from the cowpuncher's face to the brilliant scarf loosely knotted about his throat, the blue flannel shirt, the bright yellow angora chaps against which the ivory butt of a revolver showed a splotch of white, and the boots jammed into the broad wooden stirrups, to their high heels from which protruded a pair of enormously rowelled spurs inlaid with silver. By her side Endicott moved impatiently and cleared his throat.
She answered without hesitation. "Yes, I think I shall."
"I'd admire fer a dance with yeh, then," persisted the cowpuncher.
"Why--certainly. That is, if I really decide to stay."
"We'll try fer to show yeh a good time, mom. They'll be some right lively fiddlin', an' she don't bust up till daylight."
With a smile the girl glanced toward the other rider who sat with an air of tolerant amusement. She recognized him as the man called Tex--the one who had so deftly dropped his loop over the shoulders of the Mayor, and noted that, in comparison with the other, he presented rather a sorry appearance. The heels of his boots were slightly run over. His spurs were of dingy steel and his leather chaps, laced up the sides with rawhide thongs looked as though they had seen much service. The scarf at his throat, however, was as vivid as his companion's and something in the flash of the grey eyes that looked into hers from beneath the broad brim of the Stetson caused an inexplicable feeling of discomfort. Their gaze held a suspicion of veiled mockery, and the clean cut lips twisted at their comers into the semblance of a cynical, smiling sneer.
"I want to thank you, too," she smiled, "it wasn't your fault your friend----"
"Jack Purdy's my name, mom," interrupted the other, importantly.
"--that Mr. Purdy beat you, I am sure. And are you always as accurate as when you lassoed the honourable Mayor of Wolf River?"
"I always get what I go after--sometimes," answered the man meeting her gaze with a flash of the baffling grey eyes. A subtle something, in look or words, seemed a challenge. Instinctively she realized that despite his rough exterior here was a man infinitely less crude than the other. An ordinary cowpuncher, to all appearance, and yet--something in the flash of the eyes, the downward curve of the corners of the lips aroused the girl's interest. He was speaking again: