Hanson's eyes were fixed ruminatively but unseeingly upon the golden
desert, its sand dunes touched with a deep rose soon to be eclipsed by
the jealous tyrian purples which were beginning to mass themselves
gorgeously beneath the oranges and flame of the setting sun.

"Gee whiz!" he muttered, "and I was figuring that if I hung round here a
week or so and played my hand all right, I'd maybe get her to do a few
steps for me in the parlor. Oh, Lordy! And now I got a chance to see her
before the footlights and size up her capacity for getting over them."

The station agent looked puzzled and a little offended. "There won't be
any footlights," he said; "and you're mistaken if you think she's up to
any rough work like climbing over them, any way."

Hanson laughed loudly. "That's all right, son, you ain't on to the shop
talk, that's all. But now, where is this show and what time does it
begin?"

"Oh, in an hour or so, whenever Pearl's minded, and it's to be held at
Chickasaw Pete's place--saloon. You see," apologetically, "we ain't a
very big community, and that's the only place where there's a decent
floor for her to dance on."

Hanson raised his brows and laughed. "Well"--he pulled out his watch and
looked at it--"I've got time to wash the upper crust of sand off anyway,
and get a bite or so first. I suppose I'll see you later. Up this way,
you say?"

The agent nodded assent. "It's a good betting proposition," he mused.
"He knows what he wants and he usually gets it, I'm thinking, or there's