dust of the road on his shoes. In place of the bright
handkerchief he now wore a slender black necktie, the ends of it tucked
into his gray woolen shirt.

He felt taller, rawer, more angular than nature had built him as he
stood there looking at the people who had gathered like leaves against a
rock in a brook. He was ashamed of his part in the public show, sorry
that anybody had been by to witness it. In his embarrassment he pushed
his hat back from his forehead, looking around him again as if he would
break through the ranks and hide himself from such confusing publicity.

The crowd was beginning to disperse at Seth Craddock's urging, although
those who had come to a stand on the sidewalk seemed timid about passing
Morgan. They still held back as if to give him room, or in uncertainty
whether it was all over yet. Perhaps they expected Craddock to turn on
Morgan again when he had cleared a proper space for his activities.

As for Morgan, he had dismissed the city marshal from his thoughts, for
something else had risen in his vision more worthy the attention of a
man. This was the face of a girl on the edge of the crowd in front of
him, a tall, strong, pliant creature who leaned a little as if she
looked for her reflection in a stream. She was garbed in a brown duck
riding skirt, white waist with a bright wisp of cravat blowing at her
breast like the red of bittersweet against snow. Her dusty sombrero
threw a shadow over her eyes, but Morgan could see that they were dark
and friendly eyes, as no shadow but night could obscure. The other faces
became in that moment but the incidental background for one; his heart
lifted and leaped as the heart moves and yearns with tender quickening
at the sound of some old melody that makes it glad.

Morgan stepped back, thinking only of her, seeing only her, making a way
for her, only, to pass. That others might follow was not in his mind. He
stepped out of the way for her.

She came on toward him now, one finished, one refined, among that press
of crudity, one unlooked for in that place of wild lusts and dark
passions unrestrained. She carried a packet of newspapers and letters
under her bent arm, telling of her mission on the street; the thong of
her riding quirt was about her wrist. Her soft dark hair was low on her
neck, a flush as of the pleasure that speaks in bounding blood when
friend meets friend glowed in her face. Morgan removed his hat as she
passed him. She looked int