Maybelle was talking more than usual, also she looked wonderfully lit up and excited, beyond what just going to a dance accounted for.
“Excuse me I—I thought there was some one with you,” Hilda faltered out, embarrassed, glancing from Maybelle to Fayte, who only grinned sardonically and didn’t say a word.
“Well, there wasn’t.” Maybelle gave her a swift sidelong look. “I don’t care to ride races and get myself all hot and mussed up when I’m going to a dance. Come on, Hilda.” And she led the way to the house.
At a table beside the main entrance of the great rambling adobe structure Miles Grainger was stationed, repeating with the ingratiating urgency of an auctioneer,
“Gentlemen, will you kindly lay your guns on this here table? A heavy six-shooter ain’t a thing to be dancing in, nohow. If it should ketch on one of the ladies’ dresses and go off, it might take somebody’s toe. And if we have any—little discussion—as folks is liable to do at a dance, you gentlemen will get along better without your guns. Take ’em off, boys. Take ’em off.”
There was already a goodly pile of weapons before him, and as Hilda’s amused eyes studied the heap, she noted that Grainger was addressing himself rather pointedly to her escort, and that the big fellow bent and whispered to Fayte, a persuading hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, all right—I don’t care, I was only fooling,” Fayte answered negligently, drawing out and laying down a long, blue-steel six-shooter. “This way, Miss Hilda,” and he guided her to the door of Mrs. Miles’ bedroom, which was doing duty as a cloak room. As he turned away he whispered,
“Don’t forget—we’ll finish that race going home.”
“Stop! Wait!” cried Hilda. “If you say that, I won’t ride home with you. I’m in earnest, Fayte Marchbanks. I will not.”
“I won’t say it then,” smiled Fayte, his tone implying that whatever he might or might not say, he would do as he pleased.