“How many here for chow?” she asked.
“Maurice Gordon an’ a lot of others,” said her father. “Start movin’!”
She started. Handsome Maurice Gordon! She had only to close her eyes and there he stood in armor—Sir Maurice de Gordon!
You might have combed the cattle ranges for five hundred miles north, east, south, and west, and never found so fine a figure of a man as Maurice Gordon. Good looks are rather a handicap than a blessing in the mountain desert, but “Maurie” Gordon was notably ready at all times for anything from a dance to a fight, and his reputation was accordingly as high among men as among women.
He made a stir wherever he went, and now as he sat in the dining-room of Jim During’s crossroads hotel, all eyes were upon him. He withstood their critical admiration with the nonchalant good-nature of one who knew that, from his silk bandanna to his fine riding-boots, his outfit represented the beau-ideal of the cow-puncher.
“Where you bound for?” asked the proprietor of the hotel as the supper drew toward its close.
“The dance over to Bridewell,” said Maurie. “Damnation!”
For as he mentioned the dance, Jac, who was bringing him his second cup of coffee, started so violently that a drop of the hot liquid splashed on the back of Maurie’s neck.
“Oh!” she cried, and seized her apron to wipe away the coffee.
“’Scuse me,” growled Maurie, seeing that he had sworn at a woman. “But you took me by surprise.”