She observed that he was a small man, with a face clean shaven, and a quiet, even unassuming, manner.
“Oh, I reckon it ain’t any of my business,” he admitted, “if you put it that way. It’s no loss, if you don’t know me. But I’ve seen you a number of times. I s’pose you’re on your way to Calumet Wells?”
“Yes,” she said, but indifferently.
“And beyond that, of course; for that ain’t no proper stopping place.”
“Yes, I’m going beyond there.”
“To ’Frisco?”
“Perhaps.”
She drew back into her corner of the stage. But she found it hard to stay there, for the pitching vehicle now and then projected her out of it, once almost into the arms of the man before her.
“I—I beg your pardon!” she cried.