“Jennie, come out or let us come in. Here's the young man I was tellin' you about,” Euchre said.
“Oh, I can't! I look so—so—”
“Never mind how you look,” interrupted the outlaw, in a whisper. “It ain't no time to care fer thet. Here's young Duane. Jennie, he's no rustler, no thief. He's different. Come out, Jennie, an' mebbe he'll—”
Euchre did not complete his sentence. He had spoken low, with his glance shifting from side to side.
But what he said was sufficient to bring the girl quickly. She appeared in the doorway with downcast eyes and a stain of red in her white cheek. She had a pretty, sad face and bright hair.
“Don't be bashful, Jennie,” said Euchre. “You an' Duane have a chance to talk a little. Now I'll go fetch Mrs. Bland, but I won't be hurryin'.”
With that Euchre went away through the cottonwoods.
“I'm glad to meet you, Miss—Miss Jennie,” said Duane. “Euchre didn't mention your last name. He asked me to come over to—”
Duane's attempt at pleasantry halted short when Jennie lifted her lashes to look at him. Some kind of a shock went through Duane. Her gray eyes were beautiful, but it had not been beauty that cut short his speech. He seemed to see a tragic struggle between hope and doubt that shone in her piercing gaze. She kept looking, and Duane could not break the silence. It was no ordinary moment.
“What did you come here for?” she asked, at last.