Laramie Holds the Range. Frank H. Spearman

      "And I thought I knew every drop of water in this country."

      He produced the sandwiches and they sat down. Kate could judge the hour of the day only from the sun and dared not mention "time." Her companion asked as many questions as he could think of, and she managed her answers with a minimum of information. And she asked herself one question that did not occur to him: "Why was she not frightened to death?" It must have been the duel she felt she was fighting with this man to keep him away from her father that banished her fears. In the saddle, events moved too rapidly to admit of extended misgivings, and she had purposely assigned to him the slower horse.

      It was only when they were taking the almost enforced moment of rest together at the water hole—which might as well have been a thousand miles from help as ten—that little chills did run up and down her back. As for her companion, it was useless to try to read him from his face or manner; if she were playing one game, he might well be playing another as far as anything she could gather from his features was concerned. But she had to confess there was never a look in his eyes—when she did look into them—that frightened her.

      And as she cautiously regarded him munching a sandwich and keeping his own eyes rather away from than on her own, she asked herself whether she had undertaken too much, and whether this sphinx-like face might hide danger for her. She at least knew it was far from being possible to tell by looking at the outside of a man's head what might be going on inside. Only the plight of her father's affairs had seemed to justify her; even this did not seem to now, but it was too late to wish herself out of it. Besides—for most extraordinary notions will come into foolish girls' minds—was she not in the company of a great Federal court; and shouldn't she feel safe on that score?

      He certainly ate slowly. His appetite was astonishing. He invited Kate more than once to continue eating with him, but her first hasty sandwich and her latent uneasiness had more than satisfied her.

      "It must be very exciting, to be a deputy marshal," she remarked once, when she could think of no other earthly thing to say, and was still afraid they might get back in time for the train.

      "It must be sometimes."

      "How does it feel to be chasing men all the time?"

      "I've had more experience myself in getting chased."

      She attempted to laugh: "Do they ever chase deputy marshals?"

      He took up, gravely, the last sandwich: "I expect they do once in a while."

      "You ought to know, I should think."

      He offered her the sandwich and on her refusal bit into it: "No," he returned simply, "for I'm not a deputy marshal."

      Kate was stunned: "Why, you said you were! What do you mean?" she demanded when she could speak. He ate so deliberately! She thought he never would finish his mouthful and answer: "I mean—not regularly. Once or twice I've been deputized to serve papers—when the job went begging. Farrell Kennedy, the marshal at Medicine Bend, is a friend of mine—that's the nearest I come to working for him."

      "But if you're not a deputy marshal, what are you?" demanded Kate, uneasily.

      His face reflected the suspicion of a smile: "I guess the answer to that would depend a good deal on who told the story."

      "I could hardly imagine anyone chasing you," she continued, not knowing in her confusion what to say.

      "You ought to see me run sometime," he returned.

      "Oh, there's a prairie dog!" she exclaimed. She was looking to the farther side of the water hole. "See? Over there by that bush! I wonder if I could hit it?" She put her hand to her scabbard: "I've lost my revolver!" She looked at him blankly. "Had it when you started, didn't you?" inquired her companion, undisturbed. Her hand rested on the empty scabbard in dismay: "I must have lost it on the way."

      He plunged his left hand into a capacious side pocket and drew out her revolver. But instead of handing it to her he began to examine it as if he might return it or might not. She was on pins in an instant. Now she was at his mercy. "Is that mine?" she asked, frightened.

      "It is."

      "Where did you get it?" she demanded. Was she to get it back? He made no move to let her know; just fingered the toy curiously. "Where you dropped it—before you made your leap for life." And looking up at her, he added: "We ought to've eaten our sandwiches first and drank afterward."

      "I don't understand—what did I do?" Kate knew her voice quivered a bit though she was bound she would not show fear. "And while we are talking"—she pointed—"the prairie dog is gone."

      "He'll be back," predicted her companion with slow confidence. "The gun bounced from your scabbard when you were running your horse along the bench. So I picked it up for you." He presented it on the palm of his hand.

      "How odd!" she exclaimed, trying to take it without appearing in a hurry. "How stupid of me!" She knew her face, in spite of herself, flushed under his gaze.

      "You were going a pretty good clip," he continued.

      "But a man would never do such a thing as to drop a revolver—you never would."

      "It might be a whole lot worse for me to do it than it would for you—though if I carried a nice little gun like that it maybe wouldn't make so very much difference. There's your prairie dog again," he added, looking across the hole.

      "Of course a man would have to make fun of a pistol like this," she answered, the revolver lying in her hand. "Let me see yours." Thus far she had seen no sign of any scabbard or holster. "And shoot that prairie dog for me," she added.

      "Mine would be pretty heavy for a prairie dog. You try him."

      "Oh, my poor little pistol is in disgrace," she returned, putting it up. "Sec what you can do."

      He slipped his left hand under the right lapel of his coat and drew from a breast harness a Colt's revolver. Had she realized it was carried that day in this very unobtrusive manner in anticipation of an unpleasant interview with her father, Kate would have been speechless with fear. As it was, no gun, though she had seen many since coming to the mountains, ever looked so big or formidable. The setting of the scene and her situation may have magnified its impressiveness.

      "Why smash the prairie dog?" he asked quietly. "Look at his whiskers—he may be the father of a family."

      "You might miss him."

      "If I should it would be time for me to quit this country."

      "Shoot at something else."

      "Why shoot at all?"

      "I want to see you."

      "We might get a shot at something on the way home."

      "You're not obliging." She held out her hand for his revolver. "Let me see."

      "It makes me feel kind of foolish," he said defensively, "kind of like an old-fashioned cowboy, to be shooting right and left." On his right hand he held the heavy gun toward Kate.

      "How do you get practise?" she asked.

      He lifted his eyebrows the least bit: "To tell the truth I haven't had much lately."

      "How can you tell then whether you could hit anything if you did shoot at it?"

      "That wouldn't be hard. If I didn't hit it, it would most likely hit me."