Brand Blotters

A little dust cloud was traveling up the trail toward the Bar Double G,

the center of which presently defined itself as a rider moving at a road

gait. He wore a Chihuahua hat and with it the picturesque trappings the

Southwest borrows on occasion from across the border. Vanity disclosed

itself in the gold-laced hat, in the silver conchos of the fringed chaps,

in the fine workmanship of the saddle and bit. The man's finery was

overdone, carried with it the suggestion of being on exhibition. But one

look at the man himself, sleek and graceful, black-haired and

white-toothed, exuding an effect of cold wariness in spite of the masked

smiling face, would have been enough to give the lie to any charge of

weakness. His fopperies could not conceal the silken strength of him. One

meeting with the chill, deep-set eyes was certificate enough for most

people.

Melissy, sitting on the porch with her foot resting on a second chair,

knew a slight quickening of the blood as she watched him approach.

"Good evenin', Miss M'lissy," he cried, sweeping his sombrero as low as

the stirrup.

"Buenos tardes, Señor Norris," she flung back gayly.

Sitting at ease in the saddle, he leisurely looked her over with eyes that

smoldered behind half-shuttered lids. To most of her world she was in

spirit still more boy than woman, but before his bold, possessive gaze her

long lashes wavered to the cheeks into which the warm blood was beating.

Her long, free lines were still slender with the immaturity of youth, her

soul still hesitating reluctantly to cross the border to womanhood toward

which Nature was pushing her so relentlessly. From a fund of experience

Philip Norris read her shrewdly, knew how to evoke the latent impulses

which brought her eagerly to the sex duel.

"Playing off for sick," he scoffed.

"I'm not," she protested. "Never get sick. It's just a sprained ankle."

"Sho! I guess you're Miss Make Believe; just harrowing the feelings of

your beaux."

"The way you talk! I haven't got any beaux. The boys are just my

friends."

"Oh, just friends! And no beaux. My, my! Not a single sweetheart in all

this wide open country. Shall I go rope you one and bring him in,

compadre?"

"No!" she exploded. "I don't want any. I'm not old enough yet." Her

dancing eyes belied the words.

"Now I wouldn't have guessed it. You look to me most ready to be picked."

He rested his weight on the farther stirrup and let his lazy smile mock

her. "My estimate would be sixteen. I'll bet you're every day of that."