A sudden hope flamed up like tow in her heart. Perhaps, after all, Ned Bannister was not the leader of the outlaws. Perhaps somebody else was masquerading in his name, using Bannister’s unpopularity as a shield to cover his iniquities. Still, this was an unlikely hypothesis, she had to admit. For why should he allow his good name to be dragged in the dust without any effort to save it? On a sudden impulse the girl confided her doubt to McWilliams.
“You don’t suppose there can be any mistake, do you? Somehow I can’t think him as bad as they say. He looks awfully reckless, but one feels one could trust his face.”
“Same here,” agreed the new foreman. “First off when I saw him my think was, ‘I’d like to have that man backing my play when I’m sitting in the game with Old Man Hard Luck reaching out for my blue chips.’”
“You don’t think faces lie, do you?”
“I’ve seen them that did, but, gen’rally speaking, tongues are a heap likelier to get tangled with the truth. But I reckon there ain’t any doubt about Bannister. He’s known over all this Western country.”
The young woman sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
CHAPTER V.
THE DANCE AT FRASER’S
“Heard tell yet of the dance over to Fraser’s?”
He was a young man of a brick red countenance and he wore loosely round his neck the best polka dot silk handkerchief that could be bought in Gimlet Butte, also such gala attire as was usually reserved only for events of importance. Sitting his horse carelessly in the plainsman’s indolent fashion, he asked his question of McWilliams in front of the Lazy D bunkhouse.
“Nope. When does the shindig come off?”