Harry had seen many such machines in his wanderings, and they had aroused no baffling instinct of habitude. But the old self was stirring now, every sense alert. Hour by hour he had found himself growing more delicately susceptible to subtle mental impressions, haunted by shadowy reminders of things and places. Something in the sight of the long, low "racer" reminded him—of what? His eye traced its polished lines, noting its cunning mechanism, its build for silent speed, with the eager lighting of a connoisseur. He took a step toward it, oblivious to all about him.
He did not note that men were gathering, that the nearest saloon was emptying of its occupants. Nor did he see a girl on horseback, with a tiny child before her on the saddle, who reined up sharply opposite.
The rider was Jessica; the child, an ecstatic five-year-old she had picked up on the fringe of the town, to canter in with her hands gripping the pommel of the saddle. She saw Harry's position instantly and guessed it perilous. What did the men mean to do? She leaned forward, a swift apprehension in her face.
Harry came back suddenly to a realization of his surroundings. He looked about him, startled, his cheek darkening its red, every muscle instinctively tightening. He saw danger in the lowering faces, and the old lust of daring leaped up instantly to grapple with the rejuvenated character.
Devlin's voice came over the heads of the crowd as, burly and shirt-sleeved, he strode across the street:
"Hand over the dust you've stolen before you are tarred and feathered, Hugh Stires!"
Harry looked at him surprised, his mind instantly recurring to the placard he had seen. Here was a tangible accusation.
"I have stolen nothing," he responded quietly.
"Where did he get what he just sold me?" The jeweler's sour query rose behind him from the doorway.
"We'll find that out!" was the rough rejoinder.