"Why—why——" stammered Texas.
"I have thought so much of him," cried Mary Adams, pouring out her feelings, in a passionate flood of words. "I have followed him about, I have watched him all day! Ever since he befriended me so that night when he saved my brother, I have thought of no one but him. He is so splendid and brave and handsome! He—never even looks at me!"
The girl's last words were said in a tone of anguish and despair, and she buried her head in her hands once more.
"It is all that other girl!" she continued, after a moment's pause. "He thinks of no one but her! Oh, how I hate her! He is with her all the time; he asked her to join that society——"
"How—how on earth did you know?" gasped Texas.
"Do you think I am blind?" cried the girl, fiercely. "Do you suppose I cannot see what Mark Mallory is doing? It is all that Grace Fuller—all! And, oh, what shall I do?"
In a perfect convulsion of sobbing the girl flung herself down upon the bank at the side of the road. And Texas stood and gazed at her in consternation and embarrassment, and vowing if the gods ever got him out of that most incomprehensible fix, he'd never look at a girl again. A dozen Comanches could not have inspired Texas with half the awe that this one passionate and beautiful creature did.
"Miss Adams," he said, at last, "I—I really don't think Mark knows how you regard him."
"I know it," sobbed the girl; "he doesn't! But I cannot tell him!"
A sudden and brilliant idea flashed across Texas' mind.