“Why, if I got drunk, I might do anything,” I said cool and hard now. “Cut off your beautiful chestnut hair for bracelets for my arms.”
Sally laughed, but she was still white. She was indeed finding herself. “If you ever get drunk again you can't kiss me any more. And if you don't—you can.”
I felt myself shake and, with all of the iron will I could assert, I hid from her the sweetness of this thing that was my weakness and her strength.
“I might lasso you from my horse, drag you through the cactus,” I added with the implacability of an Apache.
“Russ!” she cried. Something in this last ridiculous threat had found a vital mark. “After all, maybe those awful stories Joe Harper told about you were true.”
“They sure were,” I declared with great relief. “And now to forget ourselves. I'm more than sorry I distressed Miss Sampson; more than sorry because what I said wasn't on the square. Blome, no doubt, has come to Linrock after Steele. His intention is to kill him. I said that—let Miss Sampson think it all meant fatality to the Ranger. But, Sally, I don't believe that Blome can kill Steele any more than—than you can.”
“Why?” she asked; and she seemed eager, glad.
“Because he's not man enough. That's all, without details. You need not worry; and I wish you'd go tell Miss Sampson—”
“Go yourself,” interrupted Sally. “I think she's afraid of my eyes. But she won't fear you'd guess her secret.
“Go to her, Russ. Find some excuse to tell her. Say you thought it over, believed she'd be distressed about what might never happen. Go—and afterward pray for your sins, you queer, good-natured, love-meddling cowboy- devil, you!”
For once I had no retort ready for Sally. I hurried off as quickly as I could walk in chaps and spurs.
I found Miss Sampson sitting on a bench in the shade of a tree. Her pallor and quiet composure told of the conquering and passing of the storm. Always she had a smile for me, and now it smote me, for I in a sense, had betrayed her.
“Miss Sampson,” I began, awkwardly yet swiftly, “I—I got to thinking it over, and the idea struck me, maybe you felt bad about this gun-fighter Blome coming down here to kill Steele. At first I imagined you felt sick just because there might be blood spilled. Then I thought you've showed interest in Steele—naturally his kind of Ranger work is bound to appeal to women—you might be sorry it couldn't go on, you might care.”
“Russ, don't beat about the bush,” she said interrupting my floundering. “You know I care.”
How wonderful her eyes were then—great dark, sad gulfs with the soul of a woman at the bottom! Almost I loved her myself; I did love her truth, the woman in her that scorned any subterfuge.
Instantly she inspired me to command over myself. “Listen,” I said. “Jack Blome has come here to meet Steele. There will be a fight. But Blome can't kill Steele.”
“How is that? Why can't he? You said this Blome was a killer of men. You spoke of notches on his gun. I've heard my father and my cousin, too, speak of Blome's record. He must be a terrible ruffian. If his intent is evil, why will he fail in it?”
“Because, Miss Sampson, when it comes to the last word, Steele will be on the lookout and Blome won't be quick enough on the draw to kill him. That's all.”
“Quick enough on the draw? I understand, but I want to know more.”
“I doubt if there's a man on the frontier to-day quick enough to kill Steele in an even break. That means a fair fight. This Blome is conceited. He'll make the meeting fair enough. It'll come off about like this, Miss Sampson.
“Blome will send out his bluff—he'll begin to blow—to look for Steele. But Steele will avoid him as long as possible—perhaps altogether, though that's improbable. If they do meet, then Blome must force the issue. It's interesting to figure on that. Steele affects men strangely. It's all very well for this Blome to rant about himself and to hunt Steele up. But the test'll come when he faces the Ranger. He never saw Steele. He doesn't know what he's up against. He knows Steele's reputation, but I don't mean that. I mean Steele in the flesh, his nerve, the something that's in his eyes.
“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?”
