LITMIR.BIZ

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he questioned, his eyes glinting with eagerness.

      "Meaning that if you were a 'special kind of man' you would be able to tell when a woman doesn't like you," she said coldly.

      "I reckon that I ain't a special kind then," he declared, his face reddening slightly. "Of course, I've seen that you ain't appeared to take much of a shine to me. But I've heard that there's women that can be won if a man keeps at it long enough."

      "Some men like to waste their time," she returned quietly.

      "I don't call it wastin' time to be talkin' to you," he declared rapidly.

      "Our opinions differ," she observed shortly, resting the pencil point on the page that she had been writing.

      Her profile was toward him; her cheeks were tinged with color; some stray wisps of hair hung, breeze-blown, over her forehead and temples. She made an attractive picture, sitting there with the soft sunlight about her, a picture whose beauty smote Leviatt's heart with a pang of sudden regret and disappointment. She might have been his, but for the coming of Ferguson. And now, because of the stray-man's wiles, he was losing her.

      A sudden rage seized upon him; he leaned forward, his face bloating poisonously. "Mebbe I could name a man who ain't wastin' his time!" he sneered.

      She turned suddenly and looked at him, dropping pencil and paper, her eyes flashing with a hitter scorn. "You are one of those sulking cowards who fawn over men and insult defenseless women!" she declared, the words coming slowly and distinctly.

      He had realized before she answered that he had erred, and he smiled deprecatingly, the effort contorting his face.

      "I wasn't meanin' just that," he said weakly. "I reckon it's a clear field an' no favors." He took a step toward her, his voice growing tense. "I've been comin' down to your cabin a lot, sayin' that I was comin' to see Ben. But I didn't come to see Ben—I wanted to look at you. I reckon you knowed that. A woman can't help but see when a man's in love with her. But you've never give me a chance to tell you. I'm tellin' you now. I want you to marry me. I'm range boss for the Two Diamond an' I've got some stock that's my own, an' money in the bank over in Cimarron. I'll put up a shack a few miles down the river an'——"

      "Stop!" commanded Miss Radford imperiously.

      Leviatt had been speaking rapidly, absorbed in his subject, assurance shining in his face. But at Miss Radford's command he broke off suddenly and stiffened, surprise widening his eyes.

      "You have said enough," she continued; "quite enough. I have never thought of you as a possible admirer. I certainly have done nothing that might lead you to believe I would marry you. I do not even like you—not even respect you. I am not certain that I shall ever marry, but if I do, I certainly shall not marry a man whose every look is an insult."

      She turned haughtily and began to gather up her papers. There had been no excitement in her manner; her voice had been steady, even, and tempered with a slight scorn.

      For a brief space Leviatt stood, while the full significance of her refusal ate slowly into his consciousness. Whatever hopes he might have had had been swept away in those few short, pithy sentences. His passion checked, the structure erected by his imagination toppled to ruin, his vanity hurt, he stood before her stripped of the veneer that had made him seem, heretofore, nearly the man he professed to be.

      In her note book had been written:

      "Dave Leviatt. . . . One rather gets the impression that the stoop is a reflection of the man's nature, which seems vindictive and suggests a low cunning. His eyes are small, deep set, and glitter when he talks. But they are steady and cold—almost merciless. One's thoughts go instantly to the tiger. I shall try to create that impression in the reader's mind."

      And now as she looked at him she was sure that task would not be difficult. She had now an impression of him that seemed as though it had been seared into her mind. The eyes that she had thought merciless were now glittering malevolently, and she shuddered at the satyric upward curve of his lips as he stepped close to the rock and placed a hand upon the mass of manuscript lying there, that she had previously dropped, to prevent her leaving.

      "So you don't love me?" he sneered. "You don't even respect me. Why? Because you've taken a shine to that damned maverick that come here from Dry Bottom—Stafford's new stray-man!"

      "That is my business," she returned icily.

      "It sure is," he said, the words writhing venomously through his lips. "An' it's my business too. There ain't any damned——"

      He had glanced suddenly downward while he had been talking and his gaze rested upon an upturned page of the manuscript that lay beside him on the rock. He broke off speaking and reaching down took up the page, his eyes narrowing with interest. The page he had taken up was one from the first chapter and described in detail the shooting match in Dry Bottom. It was a truthful picture of what had actually happened. She had even used the real names of the characters. Leviatt saw a reference to the "Silver Dollar" saloon, to the loungers, to the stranger who had ridden up and who sat on his pony near the hitching rail, and who was called Ferguson. He saw his own name; read the story of how the stranger had eclipsed his feat by putting six bullets into the can.

      He dropped the page to the rock and looked up at Miss Radford with a short laugh.

      "So that's what you're writin'?" he sneered. "You're writin' somethin' that really happened. You're even writin' the real names an' tellin' how Stafford's stray-man butted in an' beat me shootin'. You knowin' this shows that him an' you has been travelin' pretty close together."

      For an instant Miss Radford forgot her anger. Her eyes snapped with a sudden interest.

      "Were you the man who hit the can five times?" she questioned, unable to conceal her eagerness.

      She saw a flush slowly mount to his face. Evidently he had said more than he had intended.

      "Well, if I am?" he returned, his lips writhing in a sneer. "Him beatin' me shootin' that way don't prove nothin'."

      She was now becoming convinced of her cleverness. From Ben's description of the man who had won the shooting match she had been able to lead Ferguson to the admission that he had been the central character in that incident, and now it had transpired that Leviatt was the man he had beaten. This had been the way she had written it in the story. So far the plot that had been born of her imagination had proved to be the story of a real occurrence.

      She had counted upon none but imaginary characters,—though she had determined to clothe these with reality through study—but now, she had discovered, she had been the chronicler of a real incident, and two of her characters had been pitted against each other in a contest in which there had been enough bitterness to provide the animus necessary to carry them through succeeding pages, ready and willing to fly at each other's throats. She was not able to conceal her satisfaction over the discovery, and when she looked at Leviatt again she smiled broadly.

      "That confession explains a great many things," she said, stooping to recover the page that he had dropped beside her upon the rock.

      "Meanin' what?" he questioned, his eyes glittering evilly.

      "Meaning that I now know why you are not friendly toward Mr. Ferguson," she returned. "I heard that he beat you in the shooting match," she went on tauntingly, "and then when you insulted him afterwards, he talked very plainly to you."

      The moment she had spoken she realized that her words had hurt him, for he paled and his eyes narrowed venomously. But his voice was cold and steady.

      "Was Mr. Ferguson tellin' you that?" he inquired, succeeding in placing ironic emphasis upon the prefix.

      She was arranging the contents of her hand bag and she did not look up as she answered him.

      "That is my business," she returned quietly. "But I don't mind telling you that the man who told me about the occurrence would not lie about it."

      "It's nice that you've got such a heap of faith in him," he sneered.

      It was plain to her that he thought

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