Clay did not in the least believe his own argument.  If he had come from a city he would have dismissed the matter as none of his business.  But he came from the clean Southwest where every straight girl is under the protection of every decent man.  If she was in danger because of her innocence it was up to him to look after her.  There was no more competent man in Graham County than Clay Lindsay, but he recognized that this was a delicate affair in which he must move warily.

On his way to the diner at noon the range-rider passed her again.  She was alone for the moment and as she leaned back her soft round throat showed a beating pulse.  Her cheeks were burning and her starry eyes were looking into the future with a happy smile.

“You pore little maverick,” the man commented silently.

The two had the table opposite him.  As the wheels raced over a culvert to the comparative quiet of the ballasted track beyond, the words of the man reached Clay.

“. . . and we’ll have all day to see the city, kid.”

Kitty shook her head.  There was hesitation in her manner, and the man was quick to make the most of it.  She wanted to stay, wanted to skip a train and let this competent guide show her Chicago.  But somewhere, deep in her consciousness, a bell of warning was beginning to ring.  Some uneasy prescience of trouble was sifting into her light heart.  She was not so sure of her fairy tale, a good deal less sure of her prince.

A second time the song of the rails lifted from a heavy, rumbling bass to a lighter note, and again a snatch of words drifted across the diner.

“. . . the time of your young life, honey.”

The girl was crumbling a bread ball with her fingers as a vent to her restless excitement.  The heavy hand of the man moved across the table and rested on hers.  “And it won’t cost you a cent, girlie,” the New Yorker added.

But the long lashes of the girl lifted and her baby-blue eyes met his with shy reproach.  “I don’t think I ought,” she breathed, color sweeping her face in a vivid flame.

“You should worry,” he scoffed.

The chant of the wheels rose again, increased to a dull roar, and deadened the sound of all talk.  But Lindsay knew the girl was weakening.  She was no match for this big, dominant, two-fisted man.

The jaw of the cowpuncher set.  This child was not fair game for a man like Durand.  When Clay rose to leave the diner he knew that he meant to sit in and take a hand.

Either the Limited was ahead of its time schedule or the engineer had orders to run into the city very slowly.  The train was creeping through the thickly settled quarter where the poorer people are herded when Clay touched Durand on the shoulder.

“Like to see you a moment in the vestibule,” he said in his gentle voice.