“Unless yo’re a heap careful right now you won’t have a thing to do with ‘later,’” she parried.  “You do like I say, Mister Man.  I ain’t a bit anxious to see you wiped out.”

“Wiping me out would shore cramp my style,” he admitted.  “I—­”

At this juncture hoofbeats sounded sharply on the trail behind them.  Racey turned in a flesh, his right hand dropping.  But it was only Lanpher and the stranger riding out of a belt of pines whose deep and lusty soughing had drowned the noise of their approach.

Lanpher and his comrade rode by at a trot.  The former mumbled a greeting to Racey but barely glanced at the girl.  Women did not interest Lanpher.  He was too selfishly stingy.  The stranger was more appreciative.  He gave the girl a stare of frank admiration before he looked at Racey Dawson.  The latter perceived that the stranger’s eyes were remarkably black and keen, perceived, too, that the man as he rode past and on half turned in the saddle for a second look at the girl.

“Who’s yore friend?” asked Marie, an insolent lift to her upper lip and a slightly puzzled look in her brown eyes as her gaze followed the stranger and Lanpher.

“Friend?” said Racey.  “Speaking personal, now, I ain’t lost either of ’em.”

“I know who Lanpher is,” she told him, impatiently.  “I meant the other.”

“I’ll never tell yuh.  I dunno him.”

“I think I’ve seen him somewhere—­sometime.  I can’t remember where or how—­I see so many men.  There!  I almost had it.  Gone again now.  Don’t it make you sick when things get away from you like that?  Makes you think yo’re a-losing yore mind almost.”

“He looked at you almighty strong,” proffered Racey.  “Maybe he’ll remember.  Why don’t you ask him?”

“Maybe I will at that,” said she.

“Didja know he was a friend of Nebraska’s?” he asked, watching her face keenly.

She shook her head.  “Nebraska knows a lot of folks,” she said, indifferently.

“He knows Punch-the-breeze Thompson, too.”

“Likely he would, knowing Nebraska.  He belongs to Nebraska’s bunch.”

“What does Nebraska do for a living?”

“Everybody and anything.  Mostly he deals a game in the Starlight.”

“What does Peaches Austin work at?” he pursued, thinking that it might be well to learn what he could of the enemy’s habits.

“He deals another game in the Happy Heart.”

“‘The hand is quicker than the eye,’” he quoted, cynically, recalling what the stranger had said to Punch-the-breeze Thompson.

“Oh, Peaches is slick enough,” said she, comprehending instantly.  “But
Nebraska is slicker.  Don’t never sit into no game with Nebraska Jones. 
Lookit here,” she added, her expression turning suddenly anxious, “did
I take my ride for nothing?”

“Huh?...  Oh, that!  Shore not.  You bet I’m obliged to you, and I hope I can do as much for you some day.  But I wasn’t figuring on staying here any length of time.  Swing—­he’s my friend—­and I are going down to try Arizona a spell.  We’ll be pulling out to-morrow, I expect.”