From the local eastbound a man swung to the station platform at Mesa. He
was a dark, slim, little man, wiry and supple, with restless black eyes
which pierced one like bullets.
The depot loungers made him a focus of inquiring looks. But, in spite of
his careless ease, a shrewd observer would have read anxiety in his
bearing. It was as if behind the veil of his indifference there rested a
perpetual vigilance. The wariness of a beast of prey lay close to the
surface.
"Mornin', gentlemen," he drawled, sweeping the group with his eyes.
"Mornin'," responded one of the loafers.
"I presume some of you gentlemen can direct me to the house of Mayor
Lee."
"The mayor ain't to home," volunteered a lank, unshaven native in
butternut jeans and boots.
"I think it was his house I inquired for," suggested the stranger.
"Fust house off the square on the yon side of the postoffice--a big
two-story brick, with a gallery and po'ches all round it."
Having thanked his informant, the stranger passed down the street. The
curious saw him pass in at the mayor's gate and knock at the door. It
opened presently, and disclosed a flash of white, which they knew to be
the skirt of a girl.
"I reckon that's Miss 'Lissie," the others were informed by the unshaven
one. "She's let him in and shet the door."
Inevitably there followed speculation as to who the arrival might be. That
his coming had something to do with the affair of the West kidnapping, all
were disposed to agree; but just what it might have to do with it, none of
them could do more than guess. If they could have heard what passed
between Melissy and the stranger, their curiosity would have been
gratified.
"Good mornin', miss. Is Mayor Lee at home?"
"No--he isn't. He hasn't got back yet. Is there anything I can do for
you?"
Two rows of even white teeth flashed in a smile. "I thought maybe there
was something I could do for you. You are Miss Lee, I take it?"
"Yes. But I don't quite understand--unless you have news."
"I have no news--yet."
"You mean----" Her eager glance swept over him. The brown eyes, which had
been full of questioning, flashed to understanding. "You are not
Lieutenant O'Connor?"
"Am I not?" he smiled.
"I mean--are you?"
"At your service, Miss Lee."
She had heard for years of this lieutenant of rangers, who was the terror
of all Arizona "bad men." Her father, Jack Flatray, the range riders whom
she knew--game men all--hailed Bucky O'Connor as a wonder. For coolness
under fire, for acumen, for sheer, unflawed nerve, and for his skill in
that deadly game he played of hunting down desperadoes, they called him
chief ungrudgingly. He was a daredevil, who had taken his life in his
hands a hundred times. Yet always he came through smiling, and brought
back with him the man he went after. The whisper ran that he bore a
charmed life, so many had been his hairbreadth escapes.