“A little of everything, I reckon,” a touch of returning bitterness in the tone. “A plainsman, who has punched cattle, but my last job was government scout.”
“You look as though you might be more than that,” she said slowly.
The man flushed, his lips pressing tightly together. “Well, I—I may have been,” he confessed unwillingly. “I started out all right, but somehow I reckon I just went adrift. It's a habit in this country.”
Apparently those first words of comment had left her lips unthinkingly, for she made no attempt to reply; merely stood there directly facing him, her clear eyes gazing frankly into his own. He seemed to actually see her now for the first time, fairly—a supple, slender figure, simply dressed, with wonderfully excessive brown eyes, a perfect wealth of dark hair, a clear complexion with slight olive tinge to it, a strong, intelligent face, not strictly beautiful, yet strangely attractive, the forehead low and broad, the nose straight, the lips full and inclined to smile. Suddenly a vague remembrance brought recognition.
“Why, I know you now.”
“Indeed!” the single word a note of undisguised surprise.
“Yes; I thought you looked oddly familiar all the time, but couldn't for the life of me connect up. You're Christie Maclaire.”
“Am I?” her eyes filled with curiosity.
“Of course you are. You needn't be afraid of me if you want it kept secret, but I know you just the same. Saw you at the 'Gaiety' in Independence, maybe two months ago. I went three times, mostly on your account. You've got a great act, and you can sing too.”
She stood in silence, still looking fixedly at him, her bosom rising and falling, her lips parted as if to speak. Apparently she did not know what to do, how to act, and was thinking swiftly.