Beth Norvell

She smiled sweetly down at him, her eyes picturing undisguised

admiration of his generous proportions, and frank, boyish face.

"Si, si, señor. Sapristi, why not? 'T is I, rather, who 'fraid you

forget to come."

"Y-you n-need n't be," he stammered, coloring. "S-señorita, I sh-shall

never f-f-forget this day."

"Quien sabe?--poof! no more vill I; but now, adios, señor."

She touched her pony's side sharply with the whip, and, standing

motionless, Stutter watched them disappear over the abrupt ledge. Once

she glanced shyly back, with a little seductive wave of the gauntleted

hand, and then suddenly dropped completely out of view down the steep

descent of the trail. Old Mike struck another match, and held the tiny

flame to his pipe-bowl.

"An' it's hell ye played the day," he remarked reflectively, his eyes

glowing gloomily.

The younger man wheeled suddenly about and faced him.

"Wh-what do ye m-m-mean?"

"Jist the same whut I said, Stutter. Ye 're a broight one, ye are.

That's the Mexican dancer down at the Gayety at San Juan, no less; and

it's dollars to doughnuts, me bye, that that dom Farnham sint her out

here to take a peek at us. It wud be loike the slippery cuss, an' I

hear the two of thim are moighty chummy."

And Stutter Brown, his huge fists clinched in anger, looked off into

the dark valley below, and, forgetting his affliction of speech, swore

like a man.