She was pale, her eyes were big and fright-laden, and since Sanderson's
comings she had been looking at him with an intense, wondering and
wistful gaze, her hands clasped over her breast, the fingers working
stiffly.

Sanderson colored as he looked at her; he was wondering what she would
say to him if she knew that he had come to the Double A purposely to
see her, and that seeing her he was afflicted with a dismayed
embarrassment that threatened to render him speechless.

For she more than fulfilled the promise of what he had expected of her.
She was slightly above medium height, though not tall--a lissome,
graceful girl with direct, frank eyes.

That was all Sanderson noted. Her hair, he saw, of course--it was done
up in bulging knots and folds--and was brown, and abundant, and it made
him gulp in admiration of it; but he could not have told what her
features were like--except that they were what he expected them to be.

"I reckon you're Mary Bransford, ma'am?" he said to her.

The girl took a step toward him, unclasping her hands.

"Yes," she said rapidly, "It can't be that you--that you----"

The big man stepped between the girl and Sanderson, pushing the girl
aside and standing before Sanderson. But he spoke to the girl.

"Look here," he said shortly; "I don't know what you two are goin' to
palaver about, but whatever it is it's goin' to wait until what we set