Tom Osby played it over again.  He sat and listened, as he had, night after night, in the moonlight on the long trail from Las Vegas down.  The face of a strong and self-repressed man is difficult to read.  It does not change lightly under any passing emotion.  Tom Osby’s face perhaps looked even harder than usual, as he sat there listening, his unlit pipe clenched hard between his hands.  Truant to his trusts, forgetful of the box of candy which regularly he brought down from Vegas to the Littlest Girl, Curly’s wife; forgetful of many messages, commercial and social,—­forgetful even of us, his sworn cronies,—­Tom Osby sat and listened to a voice which sang of a Face that was the Fairest, and of a Dark blue Eye.

[Illustration:  “A voice which sang of a Face that was the Fairest, and of a Dark blue Eye.”]

The voice sang and sang again, until finally four conspirators once more approached Tom Osby’s cabin.  He had forgotten his supper.  Dinner was done, in Heart’s Desire, soon after noon.  Dan Anderson stood thoughtful for a time.

“Let him alone, fellows,” said he.  “I savvy.  That fellow’s in love!  He’s in love with a Voice!  Ain’t it awful?”

Silence met this remark.  Dan Anderson seated himself on a stone, and we others followed his example, going into a committee of the whole, there in the night-time, on the bank of the arroyo.

“Did you notice, Curly,” asked Dan Anderson—­“did you get a chance to see the name on the record of the singer who—­who perpetrated this?”

“No,” said Curly.  “I couldn’t get a clean look at the brand, owin’ to Tom’s cuttin’ out the thing so sudden from the bunch.  It was somethin’ like Doughnuts—­”

“Exactly—­Madame Donatelli!  I thought I rather recognized that voice my own self.”

“Dago!” said McKinney with scorn.

“By trainin’, though not by birth,” admitted Dan Anderson.  “Georgia girl originally, they tell me, and Dagoized proper, subsequent.  All Yankee girls have to be Dagoized before they can learn to sing right good and strong, you know.  They frequent learn a heap of things besides ‘Annie Laurie’—­and besides singin’.  Oh, I can see the Yankee Dago lady right now.  Fancy works installed in the roof of her mouth, adjacent and adjoinin’ to her tongue, teeth, and other vocal outfit.

“Now, this here Georgia girl, accordin’ to all stories, has sung herself into about a quarter of a million dollars and four or five different husbands with that voice of hers; and that same ’Annie Laurie’ song was largely responsible.  Now, why, why, couldn’t she have taken a fellow of her size, and not gone and made trouble for Tom Osby?  It wasn’t fair play.

“Now, Tom, he sits humped over in there, a-lookin’ in that horn.  What does he see?  Madame Donatelli?  Does he see her show her teeth and bat her eyes when she’s fetchin’ one of them hand-curled trills of hers?  Nay, nay.  What he sees is a girl just like the one he used to know—­”