“Just plain foolishness, I guess, the same as any other soldier of fortune shows.”
“Those men are not soldiers of fortune—they are soldiers of murder,” exclaimed the girl. “If you go on with them you’ll be one with them.”
“Then it means something to you?” asked Bertram triumphantly.
“Yes,” said the girl, with another quick flush. “It means just what it would if I saw any young man on the wrong road.”
“Well, even if you put it that impersonally, still I’m glad,” replied the young Texan. “I’ve got to go on with the outfit, but I promise you one thing—that, if there’s any murder done, my hands won’t be red.”
Just then, from around the corner of the station, came the sound of men’s voices, in a cowboy song.
“They’re coming,” said the girl. “I don’t want them to see me. I’m going to be on the northbound train that goes just ahead of yours.”
“But your name, and where can I see you?” persisted the cowboy, clinging to the soft little hand which he found in his big fist.
“If you’ll let go my hand, I’ll give you a card,” said the girl, with a nervous laugh. Bertram reluctantly released her hand. He felt a card thrust into his fingers, and an instant later the girl had disappeared around the end of the station. He followed her swiftly moving form with his glance, as she passed along the dimly-lighted platform and vanished through the gate leading to the tracks. Then he stepped to a light and read the card eagerly.
“Alma Caldwell!” he exclaimed, repeating the name several times. “Pretty name for a prettier girl! I wonder why a girl like her knows about Swingley’s little expedition, and why she’s so anxious to keep ahead of us.”