It still was insufferably hot. It would undoubtedly be some time after
the sun went down before he and Will French would start for town. In the
meantime, Lane wanted above all other things an opportunity to speak to
the girl he had met accidentally that morning. The sight of the
iron-gray stallion had given rise to a startling surmise. Could it be
that the girl of the rancho was his gun girl—the girl of the mask?
It seemed absurd, preposterous, actually ridiculous; but there could be
but one such stallion in that country. He could not possibly mistake it.
So—here was the stallion, and here was a girl. He could not help but
link the two. Still, there might be another girl at the rancho whom he
had not seen. He gave it up, but he was resolved to see the girl again
before he left.
As he was at the lower end of the patio, it stood to reason that the
girl, since she apparently did not wish to see him, was keeping to the
front of the house. Therefore, that was the place to find her. Lane
decided to get up there _some_ way. He looked out his door and made sure
no one was in sight. Will French was at the barn helping take care of
the stallion; he would probably be there some time. The old man possibly
had not finished his siesta; old men of the desert like to sleep during
the heat of the day.
Lane walked around to the rear of the house. No one was about; there
were no sounds. He slipped along the side of the house. On either side
of the house was a narrow passage between walls, for the place was so
constructed that there were really two patios, one in front and one in
the rear, with the house proper as a separate unit. As Lane reached the
front of the house he slipped behind a hedge which partially hid the
wall and made his way to a point where he had an excellent view of the
front of the house and the front patio.
The patio was larger than the one in the rear. It also had a fountain
and there were many flowers, showing plainly that this was the favorite
playground of the mistress of the rancho. Now, could a girl so inclined
to be one to go to a mountain top, face a man masked, draw a gun, and
talk as the girl whom Lane had met? He shook his head. It just was not
in the picture; but he wanted to meet her again just the same.
Lane was musing on this when the girl suddenly appeared, coming from the
house. She was dressed in white, and he marveled at her beauty. She was
a veritable desert flower, a delicate, beautiful flower, such as springs
up on the floor of the desert during the rains, and vanishes when the
hot sun comes to rule again.
She walked up to the patio and was lost among the shrubs beyond the
fountain. Lane waited a short space and then boldly followed. He found
her among the flowers at the upper end. She did not appear startled, but
looked at him gravely out of large, questioning eyes. He removed his hat
and gallantly bowed.
“Señorita,” he said soberly, “I could not leave without seeing you
again.”
“Why should you wish to see me?” she asked. Her voice was low and
sweetly questioning. It was not anything like the voice of the girl of
the mask. But he had made his resolution and he would live up to it.
“Because I believe we have met before,” he replied, smiling.
“Yes?” Her brows lifted slightly in surprise. “But you are mistaken, of
course.”
“I don’t think so,” said Lane, shaking his head slowly. “Of course I did
not see all of your face, señorita, but there are other reasons why I am
sure. I saw the big stallion this afternoon. There can be no other horse
like that hereabouts, nor anywhere else. I know horses, señorita, and I
remember the markings. And there is the shoulder brand, too.” He smiled
pleasantly.
A dark light glowed in her eyes. “But what has a stallion, or any horse
except my own saddle animal, to do with me?” she said in the same low
voice.
“Do you not play the violin?” he asked boldly.
She looked him steadily in the eye. “My father and brother have been
hospitable to you,” she said coldly. “You repay them, then, by
attempting to flirt with me? I do not talk with strange men who might
come from anywhere or be anything. Please go.”
Lane was thrilled. In this speech there was more than a hint of that
voice which he had heard high up on the shoulder of Smoky Butte. He was
convinced.
“But I am _not_ mistaken,” he said in a sterner voice. “I can understand
your motive in donning the mask. Beauty such as yours should be
concealed in wild country before a stranger. But, señorita, I have not
forgotten the gun!”
Her eyes flashed. “I half believe you’re crazy,” she said angrily, with
a harsher note in her voice. “If you do not go, I shall call my brother.
It would not be well for him to find you here. Are you going?”
“Of course,” Lane answered, bowing. “Now that I have learned that which
I wished to know, I am going. But we’ll meet again, my gun girl. I won’t
mention this coincidence to any one. Adios!”
With that he slipped off and made his way hurriedly back to his own
room.
Joan stood for some time, her hands clenched, fire in her eyes. The
fool! But he could not know his danger. The fire died away. This was no
ordinary long rider, no tinhorn gambler. He was different from the young
men who came to the rancho and whom she scorned. She could not scorn
this man. He was far too clever. She knew in her heart that he was
convinced of her identity. What of it? Wasn’t he riding to Sunrise with
Will that night? She would never see him again. A word to Will and she
would be _sure_ of not seeing him again. Yes, that was the best way. A
word in Will’s ear——
She started at a swift pace for the house, her pretty lips pressed
tightly in the heat of her resolve. But as she neared the house her pace
slackened; she walked more and more slowly, biting her lip. Finally, she
stopped and idly plucked a flower. A word to Will——
But she knew in her heart that the word never would be spoken. It
irritated and puzzled her. This man was to be invited into the house for
supper. She would not eat with them, of course. But she would watch him
covertly, study him, and listen to what he said. Yes, that would be
best—and there would be no word to Will!
Lane’s thoughts were crowding each other as he entered his room. The
interior was in shadow because of the heavy foliage which darkened the
window, and he started with surprise, his hand automatically whipping to
his gun, as he perceived a man sitting by the table. He recognized Will
French, and laughed.
But French did not laugh. He looked at Lane coolly as the latter sat
down on the edge of the bed. “Where have you been?” he asked slowly.
“Oh, looking aroun’,” Lane replied casually. “Don’t know as I ever saw
such a snug layout in the desert. You’ve sure got water enough. Where
does it all come from?”
French ignored the question. “You’ve been up there trying to talk with
my sister,” he said. “Lots of ’em have tried that an’ learned better.
Can’t say as I blame you, exactly, but it don’t go, Lane. Understand?
_It don’t go!_” His eyes burned into Lane’s.
“I found that out from _her_,” said Lane, shrugging, and taking out
tobacco and papers. “You can’t blame a man for wanting to talk to such a
girl as your sister. You know I met her out there this morning——”
“_Don’t try to see her again!_”
Will French’s tone was more than convincing; it was a threat which could
not be misunderstood. His eyes had narrowed and the look he gave Lane
backed up his words. And Lane felt that this attitude on the part of
Will supported his conviction that the man’s sister was the gun girl. It
was palpable that her family did not want any one to know of her
ramblings in the lava hills and of her proficiency with her weapon. But
why? There was nothing wrong in these things.
“Don’t worry,” was all he said.
Will French’s mood changed instantly. “We’ll be taking on some supper
shortly and at sundown we’ll start,” he said in an ordinary tone.
Evidently, the incident was closed. “How’d you like a good stiff game of
cards, Lane?”
Lane looked at him sharply. So _that_ was the play. Will French was
scheming to get him into a game for big stakes with some other
sharpers—no doubt Will was one himself—and clean him of his stake. He
smiled wryly and looked at French with a new light in his eyes.
But French read his thoughts and laughed with genuine delight. “I’ve got
you pegged,” he said merrily. “I know just what you’re thinking about.
You’re thinking that I’m scheming to get you into a crooked game and
fleece you.” He chuckled gleefully. “Why, I reckon you could take care
of yourself. Anyway, that ain’t the play, Lane”—his voice became
serious—“an’ I was inviting you into a select game. There are a few of
us, who can afford it, who play pretty high. We play square an’ we watch
each other like hawks. I merely suggested it as a favor since you
said——”
“Oh, I’ll come in,” Lane interrupted, convinced the thing was on the
square although he, too, would watch the others like a hawk. “The point
is, when do we eat?”
“Come on,” said Will, rising.
He led Lane to the house, where supper was ready. There were only the
three of them—old Zeb French, Will, and Lane. The girl did not appear
and Lane had not expected to see her. He suspected that she was watching
and listening, and in this he was correct. His every remark was guarded.
It was a strange meal, with the old man doing most of the talking. His
conversation dealt mostly with the old days, and Will French winked at
Lane several times when his father started off to tell something,
remembered there was a stranger present, and ceased abruptly.
After the meal they went into the big living room for a smoke. Still no
sign of the girl. But Lane sensed the invisible eyes and ears of his gun
girl of the mask.
Above the lava hills in the west burned the sunset fires. Gradually the
crimson changed to gold—to purple—to blue, and the twilight fell
swiftly. They went out to the barn for their horses, and when they rode
out of the oasis it was dark.
Through the soft desert night, with the star clusters dancing above
them, with the shadows lying in grotesque patterns across the desolate
land, with the giant cacti standing like sentinels to mark their path,
they sped in silence toward town.