look, but a wicked gleam came into her black eyes. As well as if she had
seen him she beheld a picture of a sulky youth spurring home in dudgeon,
a scowl of discontent on his handsome, boyish face. He had come down the
mountain trail singing, but no music travelled with him on his return
journey. Nor had she alone known this. Without deigning to notice it,
she caught a wink and a nod from one vaquero to another. It was certain
they would not forget to "rub it in" when next they met Master Tom. She
promised herself, as she handed out newspapers and letters to the
cowmen, sheep-herders, and miners who had ridden in to the stage station
for their mail, to teach that young man his place.

"I'll take a dollar's worth of two's."

Phyllis turned her head in the slow, disdainful fashion she had
inherited from her Southern ancestors and without a word pushed the
sheet of stamps through the window. That voice, with its hint of
sardonic amusement, was like a trumpet call to battle.

"Any mail for Buck Weaver?"

"No," she answered promptly without looking.

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Couldn't be overlooking any, could you?"

Her eyes met his with the rapier steel of hostility. He was mocking her,
for his mail all came to Saguaro. The man was her father's enemy. He had