Dextry and his companion had crossed to the other side and were approaching, so the gambler gained a fair view of them. He searched every inch of the girl’s face and figure, then, as she made to turn her eyes in his direction, he slouched away. He followed, however, at a distance, till he saw the man leave her, then on up to the big hotel he shadowed her. A half-hour later he was drinking in the Golden Gate bar-room with an acquaintance who ministered to the mechanical details behind the hotel counter.
“Who’s the girl I saw come in just now?” he inquired.
“I guess you mean the Judge’s niece.”
Both men spoke in the dead, restrained tones that go with their callings.
“What’s her name?”
“Chester, I think. Why? Look good to you, Kid?”
Although the other neither spoke nor made sign, the bartender construed his silence as acquiescence and continued, with a conscious glance at his own reflection while he adjusted his diamond scarf-pin: “Well, she can have me! I’ve got it fixed to meet her.”
“Bah! I guess not,” said the Kid, suddenly, with an inflection that startled the other from his preening. Then, as he went out, the man mused:
“Gee! Bronco’s got the worst eye in the camp! Makes me creep when he throws it on me with that muddy look. He acted like he was jealous.”
At noon the next day, as he prepared to go to the claim, Dextry’s partner burst in upon him. Glenister was dishevelled, and his eyes shone with intense excitement.