As soon as she heard the stage breasting the hill, she was up from the bed as swift as a panther and at her dressing-table dabbing with a kerchief at the telltale eyes and cheeks.  Before the passengers began streaming into the house for dinner she was her competent self, had already cast a supervising eye over Becky the cook and Manuel the waiter, to see that everything was in readiness, and behind the official cage had fallen to arranging the mail that had just come up from Noches on the stage.

From this point of vantage she could cast an occasional look into the dining-room to see that all was going well there.  Once, glancing through the window, she saw Tom Dixon in conversation with a half-grown youngster in leathers, gauntlets, and spurs.  A coin was changing hands from the older boy to the younger, and as soon as the delivery window was raised little Bud Tryon shuffled in to get the family mail and that of Tom.  Also he pushed through the opening a folded paper evidently torn from a notebook.

“This here is for you, Phyl,” he explained.

She pushed it back.  “I’m too busy to read it.”

“It’s from Tom,” he further volunteered.

“Is it?”

She took the paper quietly but with a swift, repressed passion, tore it across, folded the pieces together, rent them again, and tossed the fragments through the window to the floor.

“Do you want the mail for the Gordons, too, Mr. Purdy?” she coolly asked the next in line over the tow head of Bud.

The boy grinned and ducked from his place through the door.  Through the open window there drifted to her presently the sound of a smothered curse, followed by the rapid thud of a horse’s hoofs.  Phyllis did not look, but a wicked gleam came into her black eyes.  As well as if she had seen him she beheld a picture of a sulky youth spurring home in dudgeon, a scowl of discontent on his handsome, boyish face.  He had come down the mountain trail singing, but no music travelled with him on his return journey.  Nor had she alone known this.  Without deigning to notice it, she caught a wink and a nod from one vaquero to another.  It was certain they would not forget to “rub it in” when next they met Master Tom.  She promised herself, as she handed out newspapers and letters to the cowmen, sheep-herders, and miners who had ridden in to the stage station for their mail, to teach that young man his place.

“I’ll take a dollar’s worth of two’s.”

Phyllis turned her head in the slow, disdainful fashion she had inherited from her Southern ancestors and without a word pushed the sheet of stamps through the window.  That voice, with its hint of sardonic amusement, was like a trumpet call to battle.

“Any mail for Buck Weaver?”

“No,” she answered promptly without looking.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t be overlooking any, could you?”

Her eyes met his with the rapier steel of hostility.  He was mocking her, for his mail all came to Saguaro.  The man was her father’s enemy.  He had no business here.  His coming was of a piece with all the rest of his insolence.  Phyllis hated him with the lusty healthy hatred of youth.  She had her father’s generosity and courage, his quick indignation against wrong and injustice, and banked within her much of his passionate lawlessness.