Turning quickly to Brockton, like a spoilt child, pleading for a favor, she said demurely:
"You don't care. You'll wait, won't you?"
"Sure," replied the broker laconically.
The girl ran nimbly down the stairs of the terrace, and disappeared among the cactus bushes.
CHAPTER VII.
Brockton leaned over the balustrade trying, through the increasing dusk, to catch a glimpse of the girl's slender form, as in her light summer gown she flitted among the trees. The autumn afternoon was now far advanced. The shadows of approaching night were already falling across the Pass. The golden glow that tinged the distant snow-clad peaks grew deeper in color. The lights were rapidly fading to beautiful opalescent hues.
It was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that the broker had retained his composure. What the girl had just told him was a staggering and unexpected blow. Underneath the man's stolid, business-like manner, there was a big heart. He was selfish and comfort-loving, like most men of his class and opportunities, but he was far from being as callous and blasé as he pretended. He had grown to be very fond of Laura. He knew that up to this time and during her whole career he was the first man who had had any real influence over her. Since the day when they first became pals, he had always dominated, and while his moral teaching left much to be desired, he had always endeavored to keep her semi-respectable in the bohemian, unconventional kind of life she had elected to lead. His coming all the way from New York to Denver to accompany her home—for the business at Kansas City was, of course, only a pleasant fiction—was proof of his keen interest in the girl. And what a disappointment awaited him! He had come after her, only to find that she had drifted away from him. What perhaps made matters worse, he could not in the least object to the manner of her going. She had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement with him. If this new love affair really meant new life to her, respectability, happiness, he would be worse than a cad to stand in her way. Nor could he, logically, bear any malice towards the man who was taking her from him.
Presently he heard voices and footsteps on the walk below, and the next moment Laura reappeared, dragging John Madison after her. The big fellow's clothes were dusty after the long ride. His corduroy trousers were encased in leggings, and on his boots were brass spurs, such as are worn in the army. In his hand he held rather awkwardly a gray cowboy hat. As the two men faced one another, there was a dramatic pause. Each looked at the other interrogatively, with ill-disguised hostility. One felt it needed but a spark to bring about an explosion. Physically, they were both fine-looking men, although the contrast was most marked. Brockton was tall and well-built, and many considered him a handsome man, but by the side of the big Westerner, he suffered by comparison. The broker was the conventional type of Eastern business man, the style of man one meets in clubs and drawing-rooms, well dressed, well groomed; John Madison, in his six feet of muscular manhood, careless and picturesque in attire, suggested the free, open life on the plains, where men face danger as a matter of course, and are prepared to defend their lives at an instant's notice. Each man took the other's measure in silence, neither flinching a muscle. The smile faded from Madison's face, and his mouth dropped into an expression of fierce determination. For a moment, Laura almost lost her self composure. Nervous, frightened, now that she had brought them together, her voice trembled slightly from apprehension:
"Oh, I beg your pardon! Mr. Madison—this is Mr. Brockton, a friend of mine from New York. You've often heard me speak of him. He came out here to keep me company when I go home."