"Now I've got you. Sure. He's the gunfighter. So that's Steve Moffatt?"
Lafe's eyes brightened and one would have thought that this discovery was the only thing needed to complete his satisfaction. He grinned genially at Moffatt when they chanced to meet at Miss Hawes's side, and exchanged polite surmises on the outlook for more rain. Said Mr. Johnson, knowing well to the contrary: "Running sheep?"
"Cattle," said Moffatt shortly.
He studied Lafe with an oblique glance, not at all sure that no insult lurked in the query. Presently he whisked Miss Hawes away. The majority of the gentlemen at the ball held their partners with both hands around the shoulders, and this method afforded excellent opportunity for Grace to gaze up into Moffatt's eyes. Her own were deep blue and singularly enticing. Steve's were brown and very, very alert and steady, and Miss Hawes rapidly discovered that they refused to waver and grow uncertain, as was the habit of most masculine orbs. To Johnson, this exhibition seemed crude, even raw. He went outside where the refreshments were cached in order to find Buffalo.
"Say, Jim, I swan that don't seem the right way to dance," he said. "It don't look proper, hugging a girl that away."
"Huh! It don't, hey? You took to it smart enough. You weren't hollering. Why, you didn't know whether you was on the floor or on the roof, when she had you going. It sort of made me tired, Lafe, the way you done. Better leave her be."
An uproar broke out in the dance hall, and Johnson sped away to ascertain the cause and to quell it. Quiet descended as his foot touched the doorstep—a swift, ominous quiet. He discovered Moffatt standing in the corner occupied by the Mexican orchestra. One of the three players sprawled on the floor, rubbing his head and sobbing, and in front of the gunfighter was an abashed puncher from the Tumbling K range.
"What did you hit him with that there stool for?" Moffatt asked, as Lafe approached.
"He weren't keeping good time," said the cowboy. "I done told him so twice."
"Go on and dance," Moffatt ordered. "Here, you. Here's your guitar. Take to it. And when a gen'l'man asks you to slow up again, you slow up. Savez?"