LITMIR.BIZ

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seat. And the cow-puncher, sheep-herder, prospector, or man about “Town,” as the case might be, would take the hint and the chair, leaving the petticoat separated from the sombreros by a table-land of oilcloth and a range of four chairs.

      But now entered a man who failed to take the hint of the spinning chair. In fact, he entered the eating-house with the air of one who has dropped in casually to look for a friend and, incidentally, to eat his breakfast. He stopped in the doorway, scanned the table with deliberation, and started to make his way towards Mary Carmichael with something of a swagger. Some one kicked a chair towards him at the head of the table. Some one else nearly upset him with one before he reached the middle, and the Texan remarked, quite audibly, as he passed:

      “The damned razor-back!”

      But the man made his way to the end of the table and drew out the chair opposite Miss Carmichael with a degree of assurance that precipitated the rest of the table into a pretty pother.

      Suppose she should countenance his audacity? The fair have been known to succumb to the headlong force of a charge, when the persistence of a long siege has failed signally. What figures they would cut if she did!—and Simpson, of all men! A growing tension had crept into the atmosphere of the eating-house; knives and forks played but intermittently, and Mary, sitting at the end of the oilcloth-covered table, felt intuitively that she was the centre of the brewing storm. Oh, why hadn’t she been contented to stay at home and make over her clothes and share the dwindling fortunes of her aunts, instead of coming to this savage place?

      “From the look of the yearling’s chin, I think he’ll get all that’s coming to him,” whispered the man who had nearly upset him with the second chair.

      “You’re right, pard. If I’m any good at reading brands, she is as self-protective as the McKinley bill.”

      The man Simpson was not a pleasant vis-à-vis. He wore the same picturesque ruffianliness of apparel as his fellows, but the resemblance stopped there. He lacked their dusky bloom, their clearness of eye, the suppleness and easy flow of muscle that is the hall-mark of these frontiersmen. He was fat and squat and had not the rich bronzing of wind, sun, and rain. His small, black eyes twinkled from his puffy, white face, like raisins in a dough-pudding.

      He was ogling Mary amiably when the woman who kept the eating-house brought him his breakfast. Mrs. Clark was a potent antidote for the prevailing spirit of romance, even in this woman-forsaken country. A good creature, all limp calico, Roman nose, and sharp elbows, she brought him his breakfast with an ill grace that she had not shown to the others. The men about the table gave him scant greeting, but the absence of enthusiasm didn’t embarrass Simpson.

      He lounged expansively on the table, regarding Miss Carmichael attentively meanwhile; then favored her with the result of his observations, “From the East, I take it.” And the dumpling face screwed into a smile whose mission was pacific.

      Every knife and fork in the room suspended action in anxiety to know how the “yearling” would take it. Would their chivalry, which strained at a gnat, be compelled to swallow such a conspicuous camel as the success of Simpson? With the attitude he had taken towards the girl, there had crept into the company an imperceptible change; deep-buried impulses sprang to the surface. If a scoundrel like Simpson was going to try his luck, why shouldn’t they? They didn’t see a pretty girl once in a blue moon. With the advent of the green-eyed monster at the board, each man unconsciously became the rival of his neighbor.

      But Miss Carmichael merely continued her breakfast, and if she heard the amiable deductions of Simpson regarding her, she gave no sign. But a rebuff to him was in the nature of an appetizer, a fillip to press the acquaintance. He encroached a bit farther on the narrow limits of the table and continued, “Nice weather we’re having.”

      Miss Carmichael gave her undivided attention to her coffee. The spurs and sombreros, that had not relaxed a muscle in their strained observation of the little drama, breathed reflectively. Perhaps it was just as well that they had not emulated Simpson in his brazen charge; the “yearling” was not to be surprised into talking, that was certain.

      “He shore is showing hisself to be a friendly native,” commented the man who had sacrificed milk-teeth investigating the indestructible doll.

      “Seems to me that the system he’s playing lacks a heap of science. My money’s on the yearling.” And the man who had “discarded the steak and drawn to the biscuits” leaned a little forward that he might better watch developments.

      Simpson by this time fully realized his error, but failure before all these bantering youngsters was a contingency not to be accepted lightly. As he phrased it to himself, it was worth “another throw.” “Seems kind o’ lonesome not having any one to talk to while you’re eatin’, don’t it?”

      Miss Carmichael’s air of perfect composure seemed a trifle out of tune with her surroundings; the nice elevation of eyebrow, the slightly questioning curl of the lip as she, for the first time apparently, became aware of the man opposite, seemed to demand a prim drawing-room rather than the atmosphere of the slouching eating-house.

      “Well, really, I’ve hardly had a chance of finding out.” And her eyes were again on her coffee-cup. And there was joy among the men at table that they had not rushed in after the manner of those who have a greater courage than the angels.

      “No offence meant,” deprecated Simpson, with an uneasy glance towards the other end of the table, where the men sat with necks craned forward in an attitude uncomfortably suggestive of hounds straining at the leash. Simpson felt rather than saw that something was afoot among the sombreros. There was a crowding together in whispered colloquy, and in a flash some half-dozen of them were on their feet as a man. Descending upon Simpson, they lifted him, chair and all, to the other end of the table, as far removed as possible from Miss Carmichael.

      The man who thought Simpson’s system lacked science rubbed his hands in delight. “She took the trick all right; swept his hand clean off the board!”

      II.

       THE ENCOUNTER

       Table of Contents

      Simpson, from the seat to which he had been so rapidly transplanted, looked about him with blinking anxiety. It was more than probable that the boys intended “to have fun with him,” though his talking, or rather trying to talk, to a girl that sat opposite him at an eating-house table was, according to his ethics, plainly none of their business. He knew he wasn’t popular since he had done for Jim Rodney’s sheep, though the crime had never been laid at his door, officially. He had his way to make, the same as the next one; and, all said and done, the cattle-men were glad to get Jim Rodney’s sheep off the range, even if they treated him as a felon for the part he had played in their extermination.

      Thus reasoned Simpson, while he marked with an uneasy eye that the temper of the company had grown decidedly prankish with the exit of the girl, who, after having caused all the trouble, had, with an irritating quality peculiar to her sex, vanished through the kitchen door.

      Some three or four of the boys now ran to Simpson’s former seat at the table and rushed towards him with his half-eaten breakfast, as if the errand had been one of life and death. They showered him with mock attentions, waiting on him with an exaggerated deference, and the pale, fat man, remembering the hideousness of some of their manifestations of a sense of humor, breathed hard and felt a falling-off of appetite.

      Costigan, the cattle-man, a strapping Irish giant, was clearing his throat with ominous sounds that suggested the tuning-up of a bass fiddle.

      “Sure, Simpson, me lad, if ye happen to have a matther av fifty dollars, ’tis mesilf that can tell ye av an illegint invistmint.”

      Simpson looked up warily, but Costigan’s broad countenance did not harbor the wraith of a smile. “What kin I git for fifty chips? ’Tain’t much,” mused the pariah, with the prompt inclination to spend that stamps the comparative stranger to

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