The Big-Town Round-Up | Page 7

The man
from Graham County, Arizona, felt uneasy in his mind. The girl was
flushed with fife. In a way she was celebrating her escape from the
narrow horizon in which she had lived. It was in the horoscope of her
temperament to run forward gayly to meet adventure, but when the man
opposite her ordered wine and she sipped it reluctantly with a little
grimace, the cowpuncher was of opinion that she was likely to get more
of this adventure than was good for her. In her unsophistication danger
lay. For she was plainly easily influenced, and in the beat of her healthy
young blood probably there was latent passion.
They left the diner before Clay. He passed them later in the vestibule of
the sleeper. They were looking out together on the moonlit plain
through which the train was rushing. The arm of the man was stretched
behind her to the railing and with the motion of the car the girl swayed
back slightly against him.
Again Clay sought the smoking compartment and was led into talk by
the officer. It was well past eleven when he rose, yawned, and
announced, "I'm goin' to hit the hay."
Most of the berths were made up and it was with a little shock of
surprise that his eyes fell on Kitty Mason and her new friend, the sleek
black head of the man close to her fair curls, his steady eyes holding
her like a charmed bird while his caressing voice wove the fairy tale of
New York to which she yielded herself in strange delight.
"Don't you-all want yo' berth made up, lady?"

It was the impatient porter who interrupted them. The girl sprang up
tremulously to accept.
"Oh, please. Is it late?" Her glance swept down the car and took in the
fact that her section alone was not made up. "I didn't know--why, what
time is it?"
"Most twelve, ma'am," replied the aggrieved porter severely.
She flashed a look of reproach at her companion and blushed again as
she fled with her bag to the ladies' dressing-room. As for the man,
Lindsay presently came on him in the smoking-room where he sat with
an unlit cigar between his teeth and his feet on a chair. Behind
half-shuttered lids his opaque eyes glittered with excitement. Clearly he
was reviewing in his mind the progression of his triumph. Clay
restrained a good, healthy impulse to pick a row with him and go to the
mat with the ex-prize-fighter. But after all it was none of his business.
The train was rolling through the cornfields of the Middle West when
the Arizonan awoke. He was up early, but not long before Kitty Mason,
who was joined at once by Durand.
"Shucks! Nothin' to it a-tall," the range-rider assured himself. "That li'l'
girl sure must have the number of this guy. She's flirtin' with him to
beat three of a kind, but I'll bet a dogie she knows right where she's at."
Clay did not in the least believe his own argument. If he had come from
a city he would have dismissed the matter as none of his business. But
he came from the clean Southwest where every straight girl is under the
protection of every decent man. If she was in danger because of her
innocence it was up to him to look after her. There was no more
competent man in Graham County than Clay Lindsay, but he
recognized that this was a delicate affair in which he must move warily.
On his way to the diner at noon the range-rider passed her again. She
was alone for the moment and as she leaned back her soft round throat
showed a beating pulse. Her cheeks were burning and her starry eyes
were looking into the future with a happy smile.

"You pore little maverick," the man commented silently.
The two had the table opposite him. As the wheels raced over a culvert
to the comparative quiet of the ballasted track beyond, the words of the
man reached Clay.
". . . and we'll have all day to see the city, kid."
Kitty shook her head. There was hesitation in her manner, and the man
was quick to make the most of it. She wanted to stay, wanted to skip a
train and let this competent guide show her Chicago. But somewhere,
deep in her consciousness, a bell of warning was beginning to ring.
Some uneasy prescience of trouble was sifting into her light heart. She
was not so sure of her fairy tale, a good deal less sure of her prince.
A second time the song of the rails lifted from a heavy, rumbling bass
to a lighter note, and again a snatch of words drifted across the diner.
".