From the unnatural brightness of the eyes of Susie and of Smith, and their still tense attitudes, Ralston sensed the fact that something had happened. He returned Smith’s unpleasant look with a gaze as steady as his own. Then his eyes fell upon Dora and lingered there.
She had sprung to her feet and was still standing. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes luminous, and the soft lamplight burnishing her brown hair made the moment one of her best. Smith saw the frank admiration in the stranger’s look.
“May I stop here to-night?” He addressed Dora.
He had the characteristic Western gravity of manner and expression, the distinguishing definiteness of purpose. Though the quality of his voice, its modulation, bespoke the man of poise and education, the accent was unmistakably of the West.
“There’s a bunk-house.” It was Smith who answered.
His unuttered epithet still rankled; Susie turned upon him with insulting emphasis:
“And you’d better get out to it!”
“Are you the boss here?” The stranger put the question to Smith with cool politeness.
“What I say goes!”
Smith looked marvellously ugly.