ight-gray eyes met Helen's, and if there was not a
smile in them or behind them she was still further baffled.

"Helen, I reckon you said you didn't want this fellow's attention."

"I certainly said that," replied Helen, quickly. Just then Bo slipped
close to her and gave her arm a little squeeze. Probably Bo's thought
was like hers--here was a real Western man. That was her first
impression, and following swiftly upon it was a sensation of eased
nerves.

Riggs swaggered closer to Dale.

"Say, Buckskin, I hail from Texas--"

"You're wastin' our time an' we've need to hurry," interrupted Dale. His
tone seemed friendly. "An' if you ever lived long in Texas you wouldn't
pester a lady an' you sure wouldn't talk like you do."

"What!" shouted Riggs, hotly. He dropped his right hand significantly to
his hip.

"Don't throw your gun. It might go off," said Dale.

Whatever Riggs's intention had been--and it was probably just what Dale
evidently had read it--he now flushed an angry red and jerked at his
gun.

Dale's hand flashed too swiftly for Helen's eye to follow it. But she
heard the thud as it struck. The gun went flying to the platform and
scattered a group of Indians and Mexicans.

"You'll hurt yourself some day," said Dale.

Helen had never heard a slow, cool voice like this hunter's. Without
excitement or emotion or hurry, it yet seemed full and significant of
things the words did not mean. Bo uttered a strange little exultant cry.

Riggs's arm had dropped limp. No doubt it was numb. He stared, and his
predominating expression was surprise. As the shuffling crowd began to
snicker and whisper, Riggs gave Dale a malignant glance, shifted it to
Helen, and then lurched away in the direction of his gun.

Dale did not pay any more attention to him. Gathering up Helen's
baggage, he said, "Come on," and shouldered a lane through the gaping
crowd. The girls followed close at his heels.

"Nell! what 'd I tell you?" whispered Bo. "Oh, you're all atremble!"

Helen was aware of her unsteadiness; anger and fear and relief in quick
succession had left her rather weak. Once through the motley crowd
of loungers, she saw an old gray stage-coach and four lean horses. A
grizzled, sunburned man sat on the driver's seat, whip and reins in
hand. Beside him was a younger man with rifle across his knees. Another
man, young, tall, lean, dark, stood holding the coach door open. He
touched his sombrero to the girls. His eyes were