“Sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,
Or Cytherea’s breath,”
he told himself exultantly as he slid from his horse and stood bowing before her.
And he, for his part, was a taking enough picture of devil-may-care gallantry gone to seed. The touch of jaunty impudence in his humility, not less than the daring admiration of his handsome eyes and the easy, sinuous grace of his flexed muscles, labeled him what he was—a man bold and capable to do what he willed, and a villain every inch of him.
Said she, after that first clash of stormy eyes with bold, admiring ones:
“I am lost—from the Lazy D ranch.”
“Why, no, you’re found,” he corrected, white teeth flashing in a smile.
“My motor ran out of gasolene this afternoon. I’ve been”—there was a catch in her voice—“wandering ever since.”
“You’re played out, of course, and y’u’ve had no supper,” he said, his quiet close gaze on her.
“Yes, I’m played out and my nerve’s gone.” She laughed a little hysterically. “I expect I’m hungry and thirsty, too, though I hadn’t noticed it before.”
He whirled to his saddle, and had the canteen thongs unloosed in a moment. While she drank he rummaged from his saddle-bags some sandwiches of jerky and a flask of whiskey. She ate the sandwiches, he the while watching her with amused sympathy in his swarthy countenance.