Whatever Stutter Brown may secretly have thought concerning this new

arrangement of his affairs, he indulged in no outward manifestations.

Not greatly gifted in speech, he was nevertheless sufficiently prompt

in action. The swift, nervous orders of the impulsive Mexican dancer

had sufficiently impressed him with one controlling idea, that

something decidedly serious was in the air; and, as she flitted across

the room, looking not unlike a red bird, he watched her make directly

toward a man who was leaning negligently back in a chair against the

farther wall. For a moment he continued to gaze through the obscuring

haze of tobacco smoke, uncertain as to the other's identity, his eyes

growing angry, his square jaw set firm.

"W-who is the f-f-feller?" he questioned gruffly. "Wh-what 's she

m-mean l-leavin' me to go over th-thar ter h-him?"

Beth Norvell glanced up frankly into his puzzled face.

"She has gone to keep him away from me," she explained quietly. "His

name is Farnham."

Brown's right hand swung back to his belt, his teeth gripped like those

of a fighting dog.

"Hell!" he ejaculated, forgetting to stutter. "Is that him? Biff

Farnham? An' he 's after you is he, the damned Mormon?"

She nodded, her cheeks growing rosy from embarrassment. Brown cast a

quick, comprehensive glance from the face of the woman to where the man

was now leaning lazily against the wall.

"All r-right, little g-girl," he said slowly, and with grave

deliberation. "I-I reckon I n-never went b-back on any p-pard yet.

B-blamed if y-y-you hate thet c-cuss any worse th-than I do. Y-you

bet, I 'll take you out o' h-h-here safe 'nough."

He drew her more closely against his side, completely shielding her

slender figure from observation by the intervention of his giant body,

and thus they passed out together into the gloomy but still riotous

street. A block or more down, under the glaring light of a noisy

saloon, the girl looked up questioningly into his boyish face.

"Are you Stutter Brown, of the 'Little Yankee'?" she asked doubtfully.

"I-I reckon you've c-c-called the t-turn, Miss."

She hesitated a moment, but there was something about this big, awkward

fellow, with his sober eyes and good-natured face, which gave her

confidence.

"Do--do you know a Mr. Ned Winston?"

He shook his head, the locks of red hair showing conspicuously under

the wide hat-brim.

"I r-reckon not. Leastwise, don't s-s-sorter seem to r-recall no such

n-name, Miss. Was the g-gent a f-friend o' your 'n?"

"Y-yes. He is a mining engineer, and, I have been told, is under

engagement at the 'Little Yankee.'"

Brown's eyes hardened, looking down into the upturned face, and his

hands clinched in sudden awakening suspicion.

"You d-did, hey?" he questioned sullenly. "Wh-who told you that r-rot?"

"Farnham."




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