Out on the flat number four, on the pinto outlaw, had hit the dirt, number five had ridden through on a dead one, and number six had quit his in mid-air.

“Next horse—­number seven!” called the Mayor.  The cowboy who had the broncho in tow headed out on the flat prepared to throw off his dallies and two others, including Purdy, rode forward quirt in hand, to haze the hate-blinded outlaw from crashing into the wagons.  With his hand gripping the cheek-strap, Tex turned and looked straight into Purdy’s eyes.

“Go crawl under a wagon an’ chaw a bone,” he said in a low even voice, “I’ll whistle when I want you.”  For an instant the men’s glances locked, while the onlookers held their breath.  Purdy was not a physical coward.  The insult was direct, uttered distinctly, and in the hearing of a crowd.  At his hip was the six-gun with which he had just won a shooting contest—­yet he did not draw.  The silence was becoming painful when the man shrugged, and without a word, turned his horse away.  Someone laughed, and the tension broke with a hum of low-voiced conversation.

“Next horse, ready!”

As the crowd drew back Alice Marcum leaned close to Purdy’s ear.

“I think it was splendid!” she whispered; “it was the bravest thing I ever saw.”  The man could scarcely believe his ears.

“Is she kiddin’ me?” he wondered, as he forced his glance to the girl’s face.  But no, she was in earnest, and in her eyes the man read undisguised admiration.  She was speaking again.

“Any one of these,” she indicated the crowd with a sweep of her gloved hand, “would have shot him, but it takes a real man to preserve perfect self-control under insult.”

The cowpuncher drew a long breath.  “Yes; mom,” he answered; “it was pretty tough to swaller that.  But somehow I kind of—­of hated to shoot him.”  Inwardly he was puzzled.  What did the girl mean?  He realized that she was in earnest and that he had suddenly become a hero in her eyes.  Fate was playing strangely into his hands.  A glitter of triumph flashed into his eyes, a glitter that faded into a look of wistfulness as they raised once more to hers.

“Would you go to the dance with me tonight, mom?  These others—­they don’t git me right.  They’ll think I didn’t dast to shoot it out with him.”

The girl hesitated, and the cowpuncher continued.  “The transfer train’s pulled out an’ the trussle won’t be fixed ’til mornin’, you might’s well take in the dance.”

Beside her Endicott moved uneasily.  “Certainly not!” he exclaimed curtly as his eyes met Purdy’s.  And then, to the girl, “If you are bound to attend that performance you can go with me.”

“Oh, I can go with you, can I?” asked the girl sweetly.  “Well thank you so much, Winthrop, but really you will have to excuse me.  Mr. Purdy asked me first.”  There was a sudden flash of daring in her eyes as she turned to the cowpuncher.  “I shall be very glad to go,” she said; “will you call for me at the car?”