Rance rose and strode over to the bar. Looking fixedly at her with his steely grey eyes he demanded the reason.
“’Cause you got a wife in Noo Orleans—or so the mountain breezes say,” was her ready answer.
Rance gave no sign of having heard her. Throwing away the cigar he was smoking he asked in the most nonchalant manner:
“Give me some of them cigars—my kind.”
Reaching for a box behind her the Girl placed it before him.
“Them’s your kind, Jack.”
From an inside pocket of his broadcloth coat Rance took out an elaborate cigar-case, filled it slowly, leaving out one cigar which he placed between his lips. When he had this one going satisfactorily he rested both elbows on the edge of the bar, and said bluntly:
“I’m stuck on you.”
The Girl’s lips parted a little mockingly.
“Thank you.”