One word would have brought her into my arms for good and all.  The better side of Sally Langdon showed then in her appeal.  That appeal was as strong as the drawing power of her little face, all eloquent with its light, and eyes dark with tears, and lips wanting to smile.

My response should have been instant.  How I yearned to give it and win the reward I imagined I saw on her tremulous lips!  But I was bound.  The grim, dark nature of my enterprise there in Linrock returned to stultify my eagerness, dispel my illusion, shatter my dream.

For one instant it flashed through my mind to tell Sally who I was, what my errand was, after the truth.  But the secret was not mine to tell.  And I kept my pledges.

The hopeful glow left Sally’s face.  Her disappointment seemed keen.  Then a little scorn of certainty was the bitterest of all for me to bear.

“That’s too much to promise all at once,” I protested lamely, and I knew I would have done better to keep silence.

“Russ, a promise like that is nothing—­if a man loves a girl,” she retorted.  “Don’t make any more love to me, please, unless you want me to laugh at you.  And don’t feel such terrible trouble if you happen to see me flirting occasionally.”

She ended with a little mocking laugh.  That was the perverse side of her, the cat using her claws.  I tried not to be angry, but failed.

“All right.  I’ll take my medicine,” I replied bitterly.  “I’ll certainly never make love to you again.  And I’ll stand it if I happen to see Waters kiss you, or any other decent fellow.  But look out how you let that damned backbiter Wright fool around you!”

I spoke to her as I had never spoken before, in quick, fierce meaning, with eyes holding hers.

She paled.  But even my scarce-veiled hint did not chill her anger.  Tossing her head she wheeled and rode away.

I followed at a little distance, and thus we traveled the ten miles back to the ranch.  When we reached the corrals she dismounted and, turning her horse over to Dick, she went off toward the house without so much as a nod or good-by to me.

I went down to town for once in a mood to live up to what had been heretofore only a sham character.

But turning a corner into the main street I instantly forgot myself at the sight of a crowd congregated before the town hall.  There was a babel of voices and an air of excitement that I immediately associated with Sampson, who as mayor of Linrock, once in a month of moons held court in this hall.

It took slipping and elbowing to get through the crowd.  Once inside the door I saw that the crowd was mostly outside, and evidently not so desirous as I was to enter.

The first man I saw was Steele looming up; the next was Sampson chewing his mustache—­the third, Wright, whose dark and sinister face told much.  Something was up in Linrock.  Steele had opened the hall.