The Long Chance

by Peter B. Kyne

  CHAPTER IV

  When Donna and Mr. Pennycook had succeeded eventually in overcomingtheir emotions, the worthy yardmaster and his wife took their departure.Mr. Pennycook was compelled to return to work and something told himthat Donna would be happier alone than with Mrs. Pennycook; hence hemade no objection to her leaving the Hat Ranch.

  They had scarcely left when the man whom Sam Singer had consulted at theSilver Dollar saloon earlier in the day appeared from the north angle ofthe adobe wall, where he had been lurking, and dodged into the Hat Ranchenclosure. Donna was seated at the kitchen table, her face in her hands,when he arrived. He could see her through the open half-window of thelean-to, so he came to the window, thrust his head and shoulders in andcoughed.

  Donna raised her head and gazed into the face of the worst man in SanPasqual!

  This peculiarly distinguished individual was Mr. Harley P. Hennage,the proprietor of a faro game in the Silver Dollar saloon. He had animpassive, almost dull, face (accentuated, perhaps, from much playing ofpoker in early life) which, at times, would light up with the shy smileof a trustful child, revealing three magnificent golden upper teeth. Hebore no more resemblance to the popular conception of a western gamblerthan does a college professor to a coal passer. Mr. Hennage lived in hisshirtsleeves, paid cash and hated jewelry. He had never been known tocarry a derringer or a small, genteel, silver-plated revolver in hiswaist-coat pocket. Neither did he appear in public with a bowie knifedown his bootleg. Not being a Mexican, he did not carry a knife, andbesides he always wore congress gaiters. Owing to the fact that he was alarge florid sandy person, with a freckled bristly neck and a singularlydirect fearless manner of looking at his man with eyes that were small,sunken, baleful and rather piggy, the exigencies of Mr. Hennage'sprofession had never even warranted recourse to his two most pricelesspossessions--his hands. Yet, despite this fact, and the further factthat he had never accomplished anything more reprehensible than stakinghis coin against that of his neighbor, Mr. Hennage had acquired thereputation of being the worst man in San Pasqual. In the language of thecountry, he was a hard _hombre,_ for he looked it. When one gazed at Mr.Hennage he observed a human bulldog, a man who would finish anything hestarted. Hence, he was credited with the ability and inclination todo the most impossible things if given half an excuse. It is needless,therefore, to remark that Mr. Hennage's depravity, like Mrs. Pennycook'svirtue, partook more or less of the nature of the surrounding country;that is to say, it was susceptible of development.

  Most people in this queer world of ours harbor an impression that if youmake friends with a dog he will not bite you, and that lion tamers areenabled to accumulate gray hairs merely by the exercise of nerve and theparalyzing influence of the human eye. Hence, when the worst man in SanPasqual confronted Donna, she did not at once scream for Sam Singer, butlooked Mr. Hennage in the eye and quavered.

  "Good morning, Mr. Hennage."

  It was hard work continuing to look Mr. Hennage in the eye. To-day helooked more like a bulldog than ever, for his eyes were red-lidded andwatery.

  Mr. Hennage nodded. He drew a silk handkerchief from his coat pocket andblew his nose with a report like a pistol shot before he spoke.

  "How's the kitty?" he demanded.

  Donna glanced toward the store and about the kitchen wearily andreplied.

  "I don't know, Mr. Hennage. I guess she's around the house somewhere."

  "The Lord love you" murmured the gambler. The hard lips lifted, the dullimpassive face was lit for an instant by the trustful childish smile,and through the glory of that infrequent facial expression Harley P.'sthree gold front teeth flashed like triple searchlights.

  "I mean, Miss Corblay, have you any money?"

  "Only a little bit, Mr. Hennage" Donna quavered. The question frightenedher and she hastened to assure the bad man that it was a very little bitindeed, and all that her mother had been able to save. She trembled lestthe monster might take a notion to rob her of even this meager amount.

  "I just had a hunch it was that way with you." The worst man in SanPasqual wagged his great head, as if to compliment himself on hispenetration. "I just knew it."

  This was not strictly the truth. Sam Singer had managed to convey tothe gambler some hint of the Corblay fortunes, financial as well asmaterial, and had begged of him to exercise his superior white manintelligence to aid the Indian in wrestling with this white man'sproblem that confronted the dwellers at the Hat Ranch. Rather a queersource, indeed, for Sam Singer to seek help for his young mistress; butthen Sam was not an educated aborigine; he was not given to reflectingupon the ethics of any given line of procedure. The fact of the matterwas that Harley P. Hennage was the only white man in San Pasqual whodeigned to honor Sam Singer with a greeting and his cast-off shoes. Inreturn Sam had honored Harley P. with his confidence and an appeal tohim for further aid.

  "I have attended to everything" continued Mr. Hennage. "Preacher,quartette from Bakersfield--they're real good, too. Playin' in atheater up there, but I engaged to get 'em back in time for the evenin'performance on a special train--so they said they'd come. An' I'veordered an elegant coffin, the best they had in stock, with a floralpiece from Sam Singer an' his squaw an' a piller o' white carnationswith 'Mother' in violets--from you, understand? Everything the best,spick an' span an' no cost to the estate. Compliments o' Harley P.Hennage, Miss Donna." He paused and rubbed his hairy freckled handstogether in an embarrassed manner. "I hope you won't think I'm actin'forward, because I ain't one o' the presumin' kind. I just wanted to dosomethin' to help out because--your mother was a very lovely lady. Threetimes a day for ten years she give me my change an' there never was atime when she didn't have a decent, kindly word for me--the only goodwoman in this town that'd look at me--God bless her! Mum's the word,Miss Donnie. Don't let nobody know I did it, because it'd hurt yourreputation. And don't tell Mrs. Pennycook! Pennycook's a clean, decentold sport, but look out for the missus!" Here Mr. Hennage lowered hisvoice, glanced cautiously around to make certain that he would notbe overheard by Mrs. Pennycook, leaned further in the window andimprovising a megaphone with his hands, whispered hoarsely the damningwords: "She _talks!_"

  Donna nodded. For a long time she had suspected Mrs. Pennycook of thisvery practice.

  "I've got to light out now" Mr. Hennage continued. "Folks'll wonder ifthey see _me_ hangin' around here. But before I go I want to tell yousomethin'. Your mother was a-countin' out my change yesterday when shegot took. She thought she was goin' then on account o' the pain bein'sharper than common, an' she cries out: 'Donnie! Donnie! My baby,whatever is a-goin' to become o' you when I'm gone!' I was the only onethat heard her say it. I caught her when she was fallin', an' I told herI'd see that you didn't lack for nothin' while I lived an' that I'd keepan eye on you an' see that nothin' wrong happened to you. Your mothercouldn't speak none then, Miss Donnie, but she give my hand a littlepress to show she was on an' that whatever I did was done with hersay-so. Consequently, Miss Donnie, any time you need a friend you justring up the Silver Dollar saloon an' tell the barkeep to call Hennageto the 'phone. Remember! I ain't the presumin' kind, but I can be a goodfriend--"

  He dodged back as if somebody had struck at him. Before Donna couldquite realize what he had been saying he had disappeared. She ran to theiron-barred gate, looked out and saw him walking up the railroad trackstoward San Pasqual. She called after him. He turned, waved his handand continued on--a great fat bow-legged commonplace figure of a man,mopping his high bald forehead--a plain, lowly citizen of uncertainmorals; a sordid money-snatcher coming forth from his den of iniquity tomasquerade for an hour as the Angel of Hope, and returning--hopeless.

  For the last tie that bound Harley P. Hennage to San Pasqual wassevered. His soul was not mediocre; he could dwell no longer in SanPasqual without feeling himself accursed. Never again could he bear tosit on his high stool at the lunch counter in the railroad eating-house,where he had boarded for ten years, and watch a stranger taking cash. Hehad watched Donna's moth
er so long that the vigil had become a part ofhis being--a sort of religious ceremony--and in this little tragedy oflife no understudy could ever star for Harley P. Her beautiful sad eyeswere closed forever now and the tri-daily joy of his sordid existencehad vanished.

  "What little things go to make up the big pleasures of life! Whocould guess, for instance, that the simple deceit of presenting atwenty-dollar piece in payment of a fifty-cent meal check had held forHarley P. a greater joy than the promise of ultimate salvation? Yet ithad; for during the slight wait at the pay counter while the cashiercounted out his change he had been privileged to view her at closequarters, to mark the contour of her nose, to note the winning sweetnessof her tender mouth, to hearken to the music of her low voice countingout the dollars, and, perchance, saying something commonplace himself ashe gathered up his change! Yet that had been sufficient to make ofSan Pasqual a paradise for Harley P. He knew his limitations; he hadpresumed but once, long enough to ask the cashier to marry him. Herrefusal had made him worship her the more, only he worshiped thereafterin silence and from afar. She had not laughed at him nor scorned him norupbraided him, lowly worm that he was, for daring to hope that he mightbe good enough for her! No. She had told him about her husband, who hadgone prospecting and never returned; of Sam Singer who had been rescuedon the desert when close to death, of his return with a wild story ofmuch gold and a man, whose name he did not know, who had killed herhusband and escaped with the gold. She respected Mr. Hennage, sheadmired him, she knew he was good and kind--and she did not refer to hismethod of making a living. She merely laid her soft hand on his, as hereached for his nineteen dollars and a half change, and said:

  "Do you understand, Harley?"

  Yes, she had called him Harley that day, and he had understood. Herheart was out in the desert. He took the terrible blow with a smile anda flash of his gold teeth, and never referred to his secret again.

  He thought of her now, as he waddled back to his neglected game in theSilver Dollar saloon. He wished that he might have been privileged toadmittance into that little room off the kitchen where something toldhim she was lying; he wished that he might see her once again beforethey buried her--but that would be presuming. He wished he knew of someplan whereby that poor body might be spared the degradation of intermentin the lonely, windswept, desert cemetery, side by side with Indians,Mexicans, Greek section hands and the rude forefathers of San Pasqual.

  What a profanation! That horrible cemetery, surrounded by a fence ofbarbed wire and superannuated railroad ties, to receive that belovedclay. He pictured her as he had seen her every day for ten years, anda rush of vain regret brought the big tears to his buttermilk eyes; thechords of memory twanged in his breast and he paused on the outskirtsof San Pasqual with hands upraised, fists clenched in an agony ofdesperation.

  "I can't stand it" he muttered. "I can't. It'll be lonely. I've got toget out. I'll close my game after the funeral an' _vamose._"

  But to return to affairs at the Hat Ranch.

  While Harley P. Hennage sat in the Silver Dollar saloon that afternoondealing faro automatically and pondering the problem of the precisepurpose for which he had been created; and while Mrs. Pennycook wentfrom house to house west of the tracks, expounding her personal view ofthe extraordinary situation at the Hat Ranch, a south-bound train pulledin and discharged a trained nurse, an undertaker, a rectangular redwoodbox and more floral pieces than San Pasqual had seen in a decade.After instituting some inquiries as to its location, the nurse and theundertaker proceeded to the Hat Ranch, followed by a wagon bearing thebox and the flowers.

  But why dilate on these mournful details! Suffice the fact that Mrs.Corblay was laid away next morning in conformity with the wishes of theonly human being who had any right to express a wish in the matter.The Bakersfield quartette was there and sang "Lead, Kindly Light" and"Nearer My God To Thee"; the Bakersfield minister was there and read: "Iam the Resurrection and the Life"; Soft Wind threw ashes on her head andcried in the Cahuilla tongue, "Ai! Ai! Beloved," after the manner of herpeople, while Sam Singer stood at the head of the grave like a figuredone in bronze. Dan Pennycook was there, supporting Donna, and made aspectacle of himself. Mrs. Pennycook was there--and superintended thedisposal of the flowers on the grave; in fact, all San Pasqual wasthere, with the exception of Harley P. Hennage--and nobody wonderedwhy _he_ wasn't there. It was well known that he was not one of thepresuming kind and had nothing in common with respectable people. Andwhen it was all over, the San Pasqualians went their several ways,assuming--if, indeed, such an assumption did occur to any of them--thatthe unknown who had provided these expensive obsequies would withoutdoubt provide for Donna also.

  That night as Donna lay awake in bed, grieving silently and striving toadjust herself to a philosophical view of the situation, she heard thefront gate open and close very softly; then slow, stealthy footstepspassed on the brick walk around the house and down the patio to the endof the garden. It was very late. Donna wondered who could be visitingthe Hat Ranch at such an hour, for No. 25, which was due in San Pasqualat midnight, had just gone thundering by. She crept to the window andlooked out.

  Beside the flower-covered mound at the end of the garden a man waskneeling, with the moonlight casting his grotesque shadow on theblossoms. Presently he stood up, and Donna saw that he had detached oneof Dan Pennycook's big red roses and was reverently hiding it away inhis breast pocket. Standing hidden in the darkness of her room, Donnacould see Harley P.'s face distinctly as he came down the moonlit patio.The terrible mouth was quivering pitifully, tears bedimmed the little,deep-set, piggy eyes to such an extent that Harley P. groped before himwith one great, freckled, hairy hand outstretched. He passed her openwindow.

  "My love! My love!" she heard him mutter, and then the slow stealthyfootsteps passed around the corner of the house and died away in thedistance. Harley P. Hennage had said his farewell to happiness. Hewas an outcast now, a soul accursed, fleeing from the soul-crushingloneliness and desolation of San Pasqual.

  When two weeks had passed, the nurse so thoughtfully provided by thegambler that Donna Corblay might not be obligated even to the slightextent of companionship and comfort during that trying period to thewomen of San Pasqual, returned to Bakersfield. In the interim Donna hadbeen offered, and had accepted, the position at the railroad hotel andeating-house so long held by her mother. It was a good position. Thesalary was sixty dollars a month. With this princely stipend andthe revenue from the Hat Ranch, and feeling perfectly safe under thewatchful eyes of Sam Singer and Soft Wind, Donna faced her little worldat seventeen years of age in blissful ignorance of the fact that she wasmarked in San Pasqual.

  She had committed two crimes. In the matter of her mother's funeral shehad scorned the advice of her elders and had dared to overthrow ancientcustom; and--ridiculous as the statement may appear--she had aroused inMrs. Pennycook the demon of jealousy! It is a fact. In the bigness ofhis simple heart the yardmaster had yielded up to Donna a spontaneousportion of tenderness and sympathy, which first amazed Mrs. Pennycook,because she never suspected her husband of being such an "old softy,"and then enraged her when she reflected that never since their honeymoonhad Dan shown _her_ anything more than the prosaic consideration of theunimaginative married man for an unimaginative wife.

  It did not occur to Mrs. Pennycook that she had not sought to bring outthese qualities in her husband by a display of affection on her part. Itnever occurred to her that Dan Pennycook was a homely, ordinary, ratherdull fellow, in dirty overalls and in perpetual need of a shave; thatDonna was a beauty who could afford to pick and choose from a score ofeager lovers. She only knew that Donna had aroused in Dan Pennycook theflames of revolt against the lawful domination of his lawful wife;that he was of the masculine gender and would bear watching. Miss MollyPickett, the postmistress, whose official duties not so onerous as topreclude the perusal of every postal card that passed through her hands(in addition to an occasional letter, for Miss Molly was not abovethe use of a steam kettl
e and her own stock of mucilage), was Mrs.Pennycook's dearest friend and her authority for the knowledge thatwhile all men will bear watching, married men will bear a most minutescrutiny. Mrs. Pennycook knew that as a wife she was approaching theunlovely age when fickle husbands tire and cast about for younger andprettier women. Hence she decided to trim her mental lamps and light thedastard Daniel out of temptation.

  Her first move was a master-stroke of feminine genius. She issued anorder to her husband to buy no more hats of Donna Corblay.

  Three loud cheers for Mr. Pennycook! He revolted. He did more. He turnedon Mrs. Pennycook--he shook a smutty finger under her nose. He saidsomething. He said he would see her, Mrs. Pennycook, further--in fact,considerably further--than that! All of which was very rude and vulgarof Mr. Pennycook, we must admit, but--

  And now our stage is set at last; so assuming three years to havepassed, behold the curtain rising, discovering Donna Corblay behindthe cashier's counter in the railroad eating-house in the little deserthamlet of San Pasqual.

  It is a different Donna that confronts us now, and the first glimpseis almost sufficient to cause us to view with a more complacent eye themental travail of any married lady whose husband might be exposed to thebattery of Donna's eyes.

  Such wonderful eyes! Dark blue, wide apart, intelligent, tender, witha trick of peeping up at one from under the long black lashes, andconveying such a medley of profound emotions that it is small wonderthat men--and occasionally women--forgot their change in the excitementof gazing upon this superior attraction.

  In his old favorite seat down at the end of the lunch counter we see Mr.Harley P. Hennage partaking of his evening meal. He has been away fromSan Pasqual for three years, and he has just returned. Also he has justdecided to remain (for reasons best known to himself), although we maybe pardoned for presuming that it may be because he sees an old, tendermemory reflected in Donna's eyes. _Quien sabe?_ He is older, homelier,sandier than when we saw him last, and he has gambled much. So we can'tread anything in his face. Moreover, we do not care to. Instinctivelyour gaze reverts to Donna, for the day's work is finished, she hadproved her cash and is about to go home to the Hat Ranch.

  She is a woman now, a glorious, healthy, athletic creature, with wavyhair, very fine and thick and black, and glossy as polished ebony. Herface is tanned and glowing, and the halo of brilliant black hair onlyserves to accentuate the glow and to remind us of an exquisite cameoset in jet. She is taller by three inches than the average woman,broad-shouldered, full-breasted, slim-waisted, a figure to haunt asculptor's memory.

  She is dressed in a wash frock of light blue material, with a low sailorcollar that shows to bewildering effect her strong full throat. Shewears a flowing black silk navy reefer and when she puts on her hatprior to leaving we realize that she has not studied male head-gearalone, but has taken advantage of her semi-public position to copystyles and to glean from the women's magazines, on sale at the counter,the latest hints in metropolitan millinery.

  This is the Donna Corblay that faces us this September evening. She hasdeveloped from a girl into a woman, and we wonder if her mind, her soul,has had equal development, or has it slowly starved in her unlovely andcommonplace surroundings?

  It has not. Donna has never been away from San Pasqual since the day sheentered it a babe in arms, but--she presides over the news counter inaddition to her other duties. Here she has access to all the latest"best-sellers," also the big national magazines, and through these meansshe has kept pace with a world that is continually passing her byin Pullman sleepers. To her has been given the glorious gift ofimagination, and dull, sordid, lonely San Pasqual, squatting there inthe desert sands, cannot rob her of her dreams. Rather has she grown totolerate the place, for at her will she can summon up a host of unrealpeople to throng its dreary single street; she can metamorphose thewater tank into a sky-scraper, the long red lines of box cars on thesidings into rows of stately mansions. She reads and dreams much, foronly between the arrival and departure of trains is she kept busy. Shesends for books that would never find a sale in San Pasqual, and someday--ah! the glory of anticipation! she is going to Los Angeles, wherethe event of her life is to take place. Going to be married? No? No,indeed. She is going to a theater.

  So much for an intimate description of our leading lady as she appearswhen the curtain rises. But in all plays, whether in real life or on thestage, there must be a leading man. Very well, be patient. In due coursehe will appear. Donna has been dreaming much of this hero of late. Hisname is Gerald Van Alstyne, and he is tall, with curly golden hair,piercing blue eyes and a cleft chin; in short, a veritable Adonis anddifferent, so different, from the traveling salesmen who leer at heracross the counter and the loutish youths of San Pasqual who, despairingof her favor, call her by her first name because they know it annoysher. Donna has not the slightest doubt but that this young fellow willcome rushing in to the eating-house some day, discover her when he comesto pay his check, and eventually return and keep on returning until thatfinal happy day when they shall go away together, to walk hand in handthrough green fields and listen to the birds and bees, to linger underthe shade of green trees, to wander in an Elysium. She does not knowwhat green fields and running water look like, but she has read aboutthem--

  The director's whistle is heard in the wings; the play is on at last!

  As Donna thrust the last hatpin through her glorious hair and turned toleave the place of her employment, her glance rested upon Mr. HarleyP. Hennage, covertly watching her over the edge of his soup spoon. Sheremoved her glove, walked around the end of the lunch counter and heldout her hand.

  "Well, Mr. Hennage. This _is_ a delightful surprise. I'm _so_ gladto see you back in San Pasqual. Where have you been these past threeyears?"

  Harley P. scrambled down from his high stool, took her cool hand andblushed.

  "I wouldn't like to tell you," he said, "but I've been in somemighty-y-y funn-y-y places, where I didn't meet no beautiful youngladies like you, Miss Donnie. I ain't much of a man at handin' outcompliments--I never was one o' the presumin' kind--but you sure do putSan Pasqual on the map. Miss Donnie, you do, for a fact."

  Donna smiled her appreciation of Harley P.'s gallantry. "You leftwithout saying good-by" she reminded him. "If I had needed you Icouldn't have found you. Do you remember? You said if I ever needed afriend--"

  The big gambler grinned. "You never needed me, Miss Donnie. You neverwould need a man like me, but you might have needed money. If you'da-needed money, now, why, Dan Pennycook he'd a-seen you through."

  Mr. Hennage did not judge it necessary to tell Donna that he had leftthe worthy yardmaster in charge of her destinies, with a thousanddollars on deposit in a bank in Bakersfield, in Dan's name, for Donna'suse in case of emergency. Mr. Hennage lived in an atmosphere of money,where everybody fought to get his money away from him and where hefought to get theirs; hence finances were ever his first thought. As forDonna, she did not think it necessary that she should express a contraryopinion regarding Dan Pennycook. She said:

  "Why didn't you come to the counter at once and say hello?"

  He shook his head, "I wanted to all right, but I hated to appearpresumin', an' with my rep in this village you know how people areliable to talk. World treatin' you well, Miss Donnie?"

  "I think I get more fun out of San Pasqual than most of the people init."

  "Well, then, you must spend a lot o' time lookin' into a mirror" repliedHarley P., and blushed at his effrontery. "That's the only way the SanPasqual folks can get any fun--a-lookin' at your face."

  "Mr. Hennage, I fear you're getting to be one of the presuming kind.I declare I haven't had such pretty speeches made me this year. By theway, how's the kitty?"

  Harley P.'s russet countenance swelled like the wattles on aThanksgiving turkey. He leaned over the counter and gazed under it;his glance swept the room; he even, peered under his stool. Finallyhe looked up at Donna with his three gold teeth flashing through histrustful, childish smile.


  "I dunno" he answered. "I guess she's around the house somewheres. Iain't seen her in quite a spell."

  "I thought so," she answered gravely, "or you wouldn't have returned toSan Pasqual. Small game for a small pocketbook, eh, Mr. Hennage?" Shecame closer to him. "I don't mind telling you--just between friends, youunderstand--that I have a couple of hundred to stake you to if you'rehard up, but for goodness sake don't tell Mrs. Pennycook. She talks."

  "Good Lord" gasped the gambler, and choked on a crouton. "D'ye mean it,Miss Donna?"

  "Certainly."

  "You're a dead game sport and I'd take you up, because I understand thatit's between pals, but you ain't got no notion o' tryin' to square mefor--you know!"

  "I might--if I didn't understand all about that--you know? As it is Iwant to show you that I'm grateful, and my experienced eye informs methat you arrived in a box car. An empty furniture car, I should say,judging by that scrap of excelsior in your back hair, although the carmight have been loaded with crockery."

  Mr. Hennage removed the evidence and gazed at it reflectively.

  "I suppose, now, if that'd been a feather, you'd a-swore I flew in."

  "Possibly. You've been a high flyer in your day, haven't you?"

  Mr. Hennage grinned. "I've flew some, but I've come home to roost now.How's the old savage down at the Hat Ranch?"

  "Sam Singer is unchanged. Nothing ever changes in this country, Mr.Hennage."

  "Nothin' but money," he corrected, as he fished a bill out of his vestpocket, "an' money sure changes hands, more particular when I'm around."

  "Are you going back to the Silver Dollar saloon?"

  "Yes, I suppose so."

  "Faro, roulette, black jack, coon can or craps?"

  "The old game--faro."

  "I'll bank you up to five hundred."

  "That's not the right thing for a young lady to do, is it?" queried thegambler. "Havin' truck wit' my kind o' people. Me--I'll do anything, buta young lady, now--"

  "Please do not compare me with Mrs. Pennycook" Donna pleaded. "I am notthe guardian of San Pasqual's morals. I'll stake you because I like youand I don't care who knows it--if you don't."

  "You're a brick" the gambler declared. "I don't need your money, youblessed woman. I'm 'fat'" and he waved a thousand-dollar bill at her."I did ride into San Pasqual on a freight, but I did it from choice, an'not necessity. The brakie was an old friend o' mine an' asked me to ridein wit' him. But all the same it's grand to think that there's womenlike you in this tough old world. It helps out a heap. You're just likeyour poor mother--a real lady an' no mistake."

  Donna blushed. She was embarrassed, despite the earnest praise of HarleyP. She gave him her hand. He took it with inward trembling, lestshe might be seen shaking hands with him and dishonored. She saidgood-night.

  "Walkin' home alone?" Harley P. was much concerned. "Not that I'mfishin' for an invitation to see you safe to the Hat Ranch, becausethat'd start talk, an' anyhow I ain't one o' the presumin' kind an' youknow it; but it's dark an' the zephyr's blowin' like sixty, an' if therewas one hobo on that freight I come in on there was a dozen."

  "Why, I didn't realize it was so late," Donna answered. "I'll have towait until the moon comes up. But I never walk home when I'm kept late.The division superintendent lends me the track-walker's velocipede andI whiz home like the limited. There isn't any danger, and if there wasI could outrun it. Do you wish to register before I go, Mr. Hennage? Isuppose you'll want your old room?"

  The gambler nodded and Donna returned to the cashier's counter. Afterassigning Mr. Hennage to his quarters she telephoned to the baggageroom next door where the track-walker for that division stored hisvelocipede, and asked to have the machine brought out and placed on thetracks.

  For perhaps half an hour she conversed with Harley P., much to thatcareless soul's discomfort, for he was terribly afraid of affording theSan Pasqualians grounds for "talk." And as she waited the moon arose,lighting up the half mile of track that led past the Hat Ranch; andFate, under whose direction all the dramas of life are staged, gave thecue to the Leading Man.

  He entered San Pasqual, riding down through the desert from Owens rivervalley. But he was not in the least such a Leading Man as Donna hadpictured in her dreams. He was tall enough but his hair was not crispand curly and golden. Most people would have called it red. Not, praisebe, a carroty red, a dull negative, scrubby red, but a nicer red thanthat--dark auburn, in fact. And he had an Irish nose and an Irish jawand Irish eyes of bonny brown. In but one particular did he resemble thedream man. He did have a cleft in his chin. But even that was none ofnature's doing. A Mexican with a knife was solely responsible. Yet,worse than all of these disappointments is the fact that his name was_not_ Gerald Van Alstyne. No, indeed. The Leading Man owned to theplain, homely, unromantic patronymic of Bob McGraw. The only thingromantic and--er--literary about Bob McGraw was his Roman-nosed mustang,Friar Tuck--so called because he had been foaled and raised on a woodedrange near Sherwood in Mendocino county. As a product of Sherwoodforest, Mr. McGraw had very properly christened him Friar Tuck, and asFriar Tuck's colthood home lay five hundred miles to the north, it willbe seen that Mr. McGraw was a wanderer. Hence, if the reader is at allimaginative or inclined to the science of deduction, he will at onemental bound, so to speak, arrive at the conclusion that Bob McGraw,if not actually an adventurous person, was at least fond ofadventure--which amounts to the same thing in the long run. Most peoplewho read Robin Hood are, as witness Mr. Tom Sawyer.

  The moon was coming up just as the red-headed young man from Owens rivervalley rode into San Pasqual. As he approached the railroad hotel andeating-house he saw a girl emerge, and pause for a moment before walkingout to climb aboard a track-walker's velocipede. In the light thatstreamed through the open door he saw her face, framed in a tangle ofblack wind-blown wisps of hair; so he reined in Friar Tuck and stared,for he--well! Most people looked twice at Donna Corblay, and thered-headed man was young.

  So he sat his horse in the dribbling moonlight and watched her seize thehandles of the lever and glide silently off into the night. He had beenstanding in the stirrups, leaning forward to look at her hands as theygrasped the lever, and now he sat back in his saddle, much relieved.

  "No wedding ring in sight" he mused. "My lady of the velocipede, I'llmarry you, or my name's not Bob McGraw."

  Just then Mr. Harley P. Hennage appeared in the doorway. He saw BobMcGraw, recognized him, and immediately dodged back and went out anotherdoor. He wanted to rush out and shake hands with Mr. McGraw, of whomhe was very fond, but we regret to state that Mr. McGraw owed Harley P.Hennage the sum of fifty dollars and had owed it for three years, andMr. Hennage hesitated to seek Mr. McGraw out for purposes of friendship,fearing that Mr. McGraw might construe his advances as a roundabout dun.Ergo, Mr. Hennage fled.

  Bob McGraw watched Donna Corblay, and when she was about three hundredyards distant and beyond the town limits, he saw that a switch hadbeen left open, for the velocipede suddenly left the outside track,cut obliquely across several parallel rows of tracks before she couldcontrol it, and shot in behind a string of box cars. As the girldisappeared, three dark figures sprang after her and a scream came veryfaintly against the wind.

  Bob McGraw laughed and drew a gun from under his left armpit.

  "I'd ride to hell for you" he muttered joyously, and sank the rowelshome in Friar Tuck.