“Now, Bo, don't get excited,” remonstrated Helen. “We've left home now. We've got to take things as they come. Never mind if Riggs has followed me. I'll settle him.”
“Oh! Then you won't speak—have anything to do with him?”
“I won't if I can help it.”
Other passengers boarded the train, dusty, uncouth, ragged men, and some hard-featured, poorly clad women, marked by toil, and several more Mexicans. With bustle and loud talk they found their several seats.
Then Helen saw Harve Riggs enter, burdened with much luggage. He was a man of about medium height, of dark, flashy appearance, cultivating long black mustache and hair. His apparel was striking, as it consisted of black frock-coat, black trousers stuffed in high, fancy-topped boots, an embroidered vest, and flowing tie, and a black sombrero. His belt and gun were prominent. It was significant that he excited comment among the other passengers.
When he had deposited his pieces of baggage he seemed to square himself, and, turning abruptly, approached the seat occupied by the girls. When he reached it he sat down upon the arm of the one opposite, took off his sombrero, and deliberately looked at Helen. His eyes were light, glinting, with hard, restless quiver, and his mouth was coarse and arrogant. Helen had never seen him detached from her home surroundings, and now the difference struck cold upon her heart.
“Hello, Nell!” he said. “Surprised to see me?”
“No,” she replied, coldly.
“I'll gamble you are.”
“Harve Riggs, I told you the day before I left home that nothing you could do or say mattered to me.”