I went in farther than was necessary for me to state my errand.  But I wanted to see Sampson’s face, to see into his eyes.

As I entered, the talking ceased.  I saw no face except his and that seemed blank.

“Vaughn Steele, Ranger—­come to see you, sir.”  I announced.

Did Sampson start—­did his eyes show a fleeting glint—­did his face almost imperceptibly blanch?  I could not have sworn to either.  But there was a change, maybe from surprise.

The first sure effect of my announcement came in a quick exclamation from Wright, a sibilant intake of breath, that did not seem to denote surprise so much as certainty.  Wright might have emitted a curse with less force.

Sampson moved his hand significantly and the action was a voiceless command for silence as well as an assertion that he would attend to this matter.  I read him clearly so far.  He had authority, and again I felt his power.

“Steele to see me.  Did he state his business?”

“No, sir.”  I replied.

“Russ, say I’m not at home,” said Sampson presently, bending over to relight his pipe.

I went out.  Someone slammed the door behind me.

As I strode back across the porch my mind worked swiftly; the machinery had been idle for a while and was now started.

“Mr. Steele,” I said, “Colonel Sampson says he’s not at home.  Tell your business to his daughter.”

Without waiting to see the effect of my taking so much upon myself, I knocked upon the parlor door.  Miss Sampson opened it.  She wore white.  Looking at her, I thought it would be strange if Steele’s well-known indifference to women did not suffer an eclipse.

“Miss Sampson, here is Vaughn Steele to see you,” I said.

“Won’t you come in?” she said graciously.

Steele had to bend his head to enter the door.  I went in with him, an intrusion, perhaps, that in the interest of the moment she appeared not to notice.

Steele seemed to fill the room with his giant form.  His face was fine, stern, clear cut, with blue or gray eyes, strangely penetrating.  He was coatless, vestless.  He wore a gray flannel shirt, corduroys, a big gun swinging low, and top boots reaching to his knees.

He was the most stalwart son of Texas I had seen in many a day, but neither his great stature nor his striking face accounted for something I felt—­a something spiritual, vital, compelling, that drew me.

“Mr. Steele, I’m pleased to meet you,” said Miss Sampson.  “This is my cousin, Sally Langdon.  We just arrived—­I to make this my home, she to visit me.”

Steele smiled as he bowed to Sally.  He was easy, with a kind of rude grace, and showed no sign of embarrassment or that beautiful girls were unusual to him.

“Mr. Steele, we’ve heard of you in Austin,” said Sally with her eyes misbehaving.

I hoped I would not have to be jealous of Steele.  But this girl was a little minx if not altogether a flirt.