No more visitors came into the Palace Grille. Sylvania had supped, and the men at the tables one by one came forward when the girl had gone, to pay their bills and slip out into the street. In the shortest of five minutes all were gone save the stranger in the corner, and the two Chinese, who padded softly about, putting the place to rights.
Kate Hallard had seen the stranger throughout mealtime. She noted, moreover, that he had more than one glance for her, the while he sat taking his supper in a deft, dainty way that some men get from much eating out of doors.
She was accustomed to being watched. More than one habitué of the place had taken his turn at gazing at her, during the year that she had been running the Palace Grille. She was not unpleasant to look at, if a man were not over-sensitive about some things. She had an abundance of fair hair that was not bleached, despite the contrast of her black, long-lashed eyes. They were handsome eyes, if bolder and harder than they might have been if life itself had been less hard and bold for this woman of the desert.
That it had been hard was told by the cold, steady gaze of the dark eyes; by the worn line of the cheek, and by the half contemptuous, half tolerant set of thin lips that ought still to be full, and curved, and red.
As she glanced over at the stranger, when both the boys were out of the room, he left his seat and came down to the counter. He was taller than she had thought, she noted, and very slender. Despite this latter fact, however, he gave an impression of more than usual strength and activity. “He’d be one blame hard man to down,” she thought, in the instant before he was leaning upon the counter, tendering the price of his meal.
“This must be a mighty uncomfortable life for a woman,” he said in a matter of fact way, watching her register the payment.
“Mebby,” she answered, shortly. He spoke again, with a sort of gentle persistence.
“I shouldn’t think you’d care much about it?” There was a questioning quality in his voice, that Mrs. Hallard felt would presently win an answer, whether she would or no. She went on “ridding up” the counter, and set a bottle of “square-face” back on the shelf behind her, with rather unnecessary energy.
“Don’t know as my caring about it would make any difference,” she finally said. “Leastways it never made none to me, an’ I guess it needn’t to nobody else.” This last was said with some significance of emphasis.
“I know,” the stranger spoke half absently. “But I’d have thought,” he continued, looking up, “that you would have preferred to keep to the range.”