“Now, when it comes to handling a gun the man doesn’t breathe who has anything on Steele.  There was an outlaw, Duane, who might have killed Steele, had they ever met.  I’ll tell you Duane’s story some day.  A girl saved him, made a Ranger of him, then got him to go far away from Texas.”

“That was wise.  Indeed, I’d like to hear the story,” she replied.  “Then, after all, Russ, in this dreadful part of Texas life, when man faces man, it’s all in the quickness of hand?”

“Absolutely.  It’s the draw.  And Steele’s a wonder.  See here.  Look at this.”

I stepped back and drew my gun.

“I didn’t see how you did that,” she said curiously.  “Try it again.”

I complied, and still she was not quick enough of eye to see my draw.  Then I did it slowly, explaining to her the action of hand and then of finger.  She seemed fascinated, as a woman might have been by the striking power of a rattlesnake.

“So men’s lives depend on that!  How horrible for me to be interested—­to ask about it—­to watch you!  But I’m out here on the frontier now, caught somehow in its wildness, and I feel a relief, a gladness to know Vaughn Steele has the skill you claim.  Thank you, Russ.”

She seemed about to dismiss me then, for she rose and half turned away.  Then she hesitated.  She had one hand at her breast, the other on the bench.  “Have you been with him—­talked to him lately?” she asked, and a faint rose tint came into her cheeks.  But her eyes were steady, dark, and deep, and peered through and far beyond me.

“Yes, I’ve met him a few times, around places.”

“Did he ever speak of—­of me?”

“Once or twice, and then as if he couldn’t help it.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, the last time he seemed hungry to hear something about you.  He didn’t exactly ask, but, all the same, he was begging.  So I told him.”

“What?”

“Oh, how you were dressed, how you looked, what you said, what you did—­all about you.  Don’t be offended with me, Miss Sampson.  It was real charity.  I talk too much.  It’s my weakness.  Please don’t be offended.”

She never heard my apology or my entreaty.  There was a kind of glory in her eyes.  Looking at her, I found a dimness hazing my sight, and when I rubbed it away it came back.

“Then—­what did he say?” This was whispered, almost shyly, and I could scarcely believe the proud Miss Sampson stood before me.

“Why, he flew into a fury, called me an—­” Hastily I caught myself.  “Well, he said if I wanted to talk to him any more not to speak of you.  He was sure unreasonable.”

“Russ—­you think—­you told me once—­he—­you think he still—­” She was not facing me at all now.  She had her head bent.  Both hands were at her breast, and I saw it heave.  Her cheek was white as a flower, her neck darkly, richly red with mounting blood.