But even while she does so, the gentleman upon whom she is gazing casts two quick, sharp glances at Ferdie and his companion, and instantly changing his direction and quickening his pace, makes straight for the saloon just as the two disappear behind its door.
"He will give me no opportunity for apology," says Erma to herself. "Very well, the next advance shall come from him!" and her pretty foot tapping the platform impatiently, she turns away and watches the baggage-men loading their trunks upon the Utah Central train.
A moment after, she is aroused from her reverie by the sound of the bell upon the station, which always heralds out-going trains, and Mrs. Livingston, coming to her, gasps, "Where is Ferdie? The conductor tells us we have only a minute more. He is not here. My Heaven, not here!"
"I know where he is, and I'll find him," answers Erma, and runs hastily down the sidewalk to where she has last seen the errant youth. As she approaches, however, she pauses a moment, for the thought suddenly strikes her, "If Captain Lawrence is there, perhaps he'll think I want to speak to him."
But remembering that haste is vital, she hastily opens the saloon door, and stands appalled; for a sight meets her such as seldom comes to a New York young lady. The signs of combat are about her—a table has been thrown over, a broken spittoon and scattered cards are lying on the floor—and Ferdie, his light suit in the sawdust of the barroom, is held down upon his back, while over him, one knee upon his chest, is a man with black sombrero and buckskin leggings and red shirt, and awful hand with uplifted bowie, ready to strike the young heart that is panting beneath his grasp, did not Harry Lawrence grasp it with his left, and with his right hand press the cold muzzle of a Colt's revolver against the desperado's forehead.
Then Lawrence's voice speaks clear as a bell: "Drop that knife! You know me, Texas Jack. I hung up your pard in Laramie. Drop that knife or I fire."
At his word the bowie-knife comes to the floor. Then Harry says coolly: "Throw up your hands and walk out in front of me," and keeping the man before his pistol, marches him out of the saloon. On the sidewalk he remarks:
"Don't look back until you have gone a hundred yards, or you are a dead man. March!" And Texas Jack, his spurs clinking in the dust, and a deck of monte cards slipping from his clothes as he walks, proceeds on his way, and does not turn back till he has got out of sight.
Then the bell of the locomotive is suddenly heard. Lawrence cries: "Hurry. You'll miss the cars!" and waves Erma, who is too much agitated, and Ferdie, who is too much out of breath, to speak, to follow him. And they all run to the station of the Utah Central, where Miss Travenion gives a gasp, for the train has already run out, and they can see it making its way to the bridge across the Weber bound for the city of the Saints.
"Anyway, God bless you!" cries Ferdie, who has gained his wind. "You saved my life."