softly brush against him when it seemed she could have avoided that?  Many times he had felt some inconceivable drawing power, and looked up to find her eyes upon him, strange eyes full of mystery, that were suddenly averted.  Was there any meaning attachable to the fact that his room was kept so tidy and neat, that every day something was added to its comfort or color, that he found fresh flowers whenever he returned, or a book, or fruit, or a dainty morsel to eat, and once a bunch of Indian paint-brush, wild flowers of the desert that Lucy knew he loved?  Most of all, it was Lucy’s eyes which haunted Slone—­eyes that had changed, darkened, lost their audacious flash, and yet seemed all the sweeter.  The glances he caught, which he fancied were stolen—­and then derided his fancy—­thrilled him to his heart.  Thus Slone had spent waking hours by day and night, mad with love and remorse, tormented one hour by imagined grounds for hope and resigned to despair the next.

Upon the sixth morning of his stay at Bostil’s Slone rose with something of his former will reasserting itself.  He could not remain in Bostil’s home any longer unless he accepted Bostil’s offer, and this was not to be thought of.  With a wrench Slone threw off the softening indecision and hurried out to find Bostil while the determination was hot.

Bostil was in the corral with Wildfire.  This was the second time Slone had found him there.  Wildfire appeared to regard Bostil with a much better favor than he did his master.  As Slone noted this a little heat stole along his veins.  That was gall to a rider.

“I like your hoss,” said Bostil, with gruff frankness.  But a tinge of red showed under his beard.

“Bostil, I’m sorry I can’t take you up on the job,” rejoined Slone, swiftly.  “It’s been hard for me to decide.  You’ve been good to me.  I’m grateful.  But it’s time I was tellin’ you.”

“Why can’t you?” demanded Bostil, straightening up with a glint in his big eyes.  It was the first time he had asked Slone that.

“I can’t ride for you,” replied Slone, briefly.

“Anythin’ to do with Lucy?” queried Bostil.

“How so?” returned Slone, conscious of more heat.

“Wal, you was sweet on her an’ she wouldn’t have you,” replied Bostil.

Slone felt the blood swell and boil in his veins.  This Bostil could say as harsh and hard things as repute gave him credit for.

“Yes, I am sweet on Lucy, an’ she won’t have me,” said Slone, steadily.  “I asked her to let me come to you an’ tell you I wanted to marry her.  But she wouldn’t.”

“Wal, it’s just as good you didn’t come, because I might. . . .”  Bostil broke off his speech and began again.  “You don’t lack nerve, Slone.  What’d you have to offer Lucy?”

“Nothin’ except—­But that doesn’t matter,” replied Slone, cut to the quick by Bostil’s scorn.  “I’m glad you know, an’ so much for that.”