“Say, look ’ere!” she shot out, scrutinising him closely; “I ben thinkin’ you didn’t come to the saloon to see me to-night. What brought you?”
“It was Fate,” he told her, leaning over the table and looking down upon her admiringly.
She pondered his answer for a moment, then blurted out:
“You’re a bluff! It may have been Fate, but I tho’t you looked kind o’ funny when Rance asked you if you hadn’t missed the trail an’ wa’n’t on the road to see Nina Micheltoreña—she that lives in the greaser settlement an’ has the name o’ shelterin’ thieves.”
At the mention of thieves, Johnson paled frightfully and the knife which he had been toying with dropped to the floor.
“Was it Fate or the back trail?” again queried the Girl.
“It was Fate,” calmly reiterated the man, and looked her fairly in the eye.
The cloud disappeared from the Girl’s face.
“Serve the coffee, Wowkle!” she called almost instantly. And then it was that she saw that no chair had been placed at the table for him. She sprang to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, Lordy, you ain’t got no chair yet to—”
“Careful, please, careful,” quickly warned Johnson, as she rounded the corner of the table upon which his guns lay.