The promise of the night flat and stale in his mouth, Thornton turned his back upon the merriment in the little schoolhouse and strode away to his horse awaiting him under the oak.  He tightened the cinch with a savage jerk, coiled his tie rope and flung himself into the saddle.  Did he not already have enough on his hands without running after a girl with grey eyes and a blazing temper?  Had he not already enough to think about, what with guarding his range interests from a possible visit from the marauder who was driving wrath into the hearts of the cattle men and terror into the hearts of the isolated families, what with scraping every dollar here and there that he might be on time with his final payment to Henry Pollard?  Must he further puzzle over the insolent whims of a captious girl?

Which was all very well, and yet as he turned Comet’s head toward the Poison Hole ranch the blood was still hot on his brow, his thoughts were still busy with Winifred Waverly and the enigma she was to him, while his mind, still touched with the opiate of the loveliness of her, was filled with the picture she made in the moment of her flaming accusation.

“I have been calling her Miss Grey Eyes!” he mused angrily.  “That name doesn’t suit her.  Little Blue Blazes would be better!”

“Mr. Thornton!”

It was Henry Pollard’s voice, and for a moment Thornton had no thought of heeding it.  But the voice called again, and he drew an impatient rein, waiting.

“Well,” came his answer shortly.  “What do you want?”

“I want to talk business with you or I wouldn’t stop you,” Pollard returned coolly.  He came close to Comet’s head and in the same, cool, impersonal voice continued.

“When time comes for your last payment are you going to be able to make it?”

“Until time does come,” Thornton snapped at him, “it’s my business what I’m going to do.”

“Certainly it’s your business.  But since you’ve put fifteen thousand into it already I guess you won’t slip up on the last five thousand.  Now it’s nearly five months until that payment falls due, isn’t it?”

“Well?  Talk fast, Pollard.”

“I want to make you a proposition.  I need money, and I don’t mind saying that I need it bad!  I’ve got a chance for something good, something big, in a mining speculation, and I’m short of cash.  If I could raise the money within thirty days...”

Thornton laughed.

“Nothing doing, Pollard,” he cut in.  “When your money’s due you can come talk to me.  Not before.”

“I said I had a proposition, didn’t I?” went on Pollard evenly.  “I see where I can make by it, and I’m willing for you to profit at the same time.”

“Spit it out.  Where do I get off?”

“You owe me five thousand yet.”

“Five thousand with interest, six per cent....”

“Forget the interest; I don’t want it.  And I’ll carve five hundred dollars off the five thousand too, if you’ll raise it within thirty days.  That is my proposition.  What do you say to it?”