Under Handicap | Page 4

dispense with thinking every bit as
easily as he could spend the money which flowed into his pockets. But
now, as unexpectedly as a flash from a dead fire, a girl's face had
startled him, and he found himself almost thinking--wondering--
Conniston turned swiftly. The girl was passing down the long narrow
hallway leading by the smoking-car, evidently seeking the
observation-car. Through the windows he could see her shoulders and
face as she walked by him. He could see that there was the same
confidence in her carriage now that there had been when she had jerked
her horse to a standstill and had thrown herself to the ground. Even
Roger, turning idly, uttered an exclamation of surprised interest.
She was dressed in a plain, close-fitting riding-habit which hid nothing
of the undulating grace of her active young body. In her hand she
carried the riding-quirt and the spurs which she had not had time to
leave behind. Her wide, soft gray hat was pushed back so that her face
was unhidden. And as she walked by her eyes rested for a fleeting
second upon the eyes of Greek Conniston.
Her cheeks were flushed rosily from her race, the warm, rich blood
creeping up to the untanned whiteness of her brow. But he did not
realize these details until she had gone by; not, in fact, until he began to
think of her. For in that quick flash he saw only her eyes. And to this
man who had known the prettiest women who drive on Fifth Avenue
and dine at Sherry's and wear wonderful gowns to the Metropolitan
these were different eyes. Their color was elusive, as elusive as the
vague tints upon the desert as dusk drifts over it; like that calm tone of

the desert resolved into a deep, unfathomable gray, wonderfully soft,
transcendently serene. And through the indescribable color as through
untroubled skies at dawn there shone the light which made her, in some
way which he could not entirely grasp, different from the women he
had known. He merely felt that their light was softly eloquent of
frankness and health and cleanness. Their gaze was as steady and
confident as her hand had been upon her horse's reins.
"She must have been born in this wilderness, raised in it!" he mused,
when she had passed. "Her eyes are the eyes of a glorious young animal,
bred to the freedom of outdoors, a part of the wild, untamable desert!
And her manner is like the manner of a great lady born in a palace!"
"Hey, Greek," Roger was saying, his droning voice coming
unpleasantly into the other's musings, "did you pipe that? Did you ever
see anything like her?"
Conniston lighted a fresh cigarette and turned again to look out across
the level gray miles. Ignoring his friend, Greek thought on, idly telling
himself that the Dream Girl should be born out here, after all. Here she
would have a soul; a soul as far-reaching, as infinite, as free from
shackles of convention as the wide bigness of her cradle. And she
would have eyes like that, drawing their very shade from the vague
grayness which seemed to him to spread over everything.
"I say, Greek," Roger was insisting, sufficiently interested to sit up
straight, his cigarette dangling from his lip, "that little country girl,
dressed like a wild Indian, is pretty enough to be the belle of the season!
What do you think?"
Conniston laughed carelessly.
"You're an impressionable young thing, Hapgood."
"Am I?" grunted Roger. "Just the same, I know a fine-looking woman
when I clap my bright eyes on her. And I'd like to camp on her trail as
long as the sun shines! Say"--his voice half losing its eternal
drawl--"who do you suppose she is? Her old man might own about a

million acres of this God-forsaken country. If she goes on through to
'Frisco--"
"You wouldn't be strong for stopping off out here?" the fat man put in
genially. Hapgood shuddered.
And to Greek Conniston there came a sudden inspiration.
"Anyway," Roger Hapgood went on in his customary drawl, "I'm going
to find out. It's little Roger to learn something about the prairie flower.
I'll soon tell you who she is," he added, rising from his seat.
But he never did. For one thing, young Conniston was not there when
Roger returned five minutes later, and it is extremely doubtful if Roger
Hapgood would have told how his venture had fared. Being duly
impressed with the fascination of his own debonair little person, and
having the imagination of a cow, he had smirked his way to the girl,
who now sat in the observation-car, and had begun on the weather.
"Dreadfully warm in this desert country, isn't it?" he said, with
over-politeness and