It was two hours later, when she was waltzing with Jed again, that Arlie caught sight of a face that disturbed her greatly. It was a countenance disfigured by a ragged scar, running from the bridge of the nose. She had last seen it gazing into the window of Alec Howard's cabin on a certain never-to-be-forgotten night.
“Who is that man—the one leaning against the door jamb, just behind Slim Leroy?” she asked.
“He's a fellow that calls himself Johnson. His real name is Struve,” Jed answered carelessly.
“He's the man that shot the Texas lieutenant,” she said.
“I dare say. He's got a good reason for shooting him. The man broke out of the Arizona penitentiary, and Fraser came north to rearrest him. At least, that's my guess. He wouldn't have been here to-night if he hadn't figured Fraser too sick to come. Watch him duck when he learns the ranger's here.”
At the first opportunity Arlie signaled to Dick that she wanted to see him. Fraser, she observed, was no longer in the dancing rooms. Dick took her out from the hot room to the porch.
“Let's walk a little, Dick. I want to tell you something.”
They sauntered toward the fine grove of pines that ran up the hillside back of the house.
“Did you notice that man with the scar, Dick?” she presently asked.
“Yes. I ain't seen him before. Must be one of the Rabbit Run guys, I take it.”