nd west through the mountain deserts. But
never before had he seen one in such a background. She had had the
good taste to make the inside of the house well-nigh as Spanish as its
exterior. There were cool, dim spaces in the big rooms; and here and
there were bright spots of color. Her very costume for the evening
showed the same discrimination. She wore drab riding clothes. But from
her own garden she had chosen a scentless blossom of a kind which Red
Perris had never seen before. The absent charm of perfume was turned
into a deeper coloring, a crimson intense as fire in the darkness of
her hair. That one touch of color, and no more, but it gave wonderful
warmth to her eyes and to her smile.

And indeed she was not sparing in her smiles. Red Jim Perris pleased
her, and she was not afraid to show it. To be sure, she talked of the
business before them, but she talked of it only in scattered phrases.
Other topics drew her away. A score of little side-issues carried her
away. And Jim Perris was glad of the diversions.

For the only thing which he disliked in her, the only thing which
repelled him time and again, was this eagerness of hers to have the
chestnut stallion killed. She spoke of Alcatraz with a consuming
hatred. And Perris was a little horrified. He knew that Alcatraz
had stolen away the six mares, and Marianne explained briefly
and eloquently how much the return of those mares meant to her
self-respect and to the financial soundness of the ranch. But this,
after all, was a small excuse for an ugly passion. If he could have
known that with her own eyes she had seen the chestnut crush Cordova
to shapelessness and almost to death, the mystery might have been
cleared. But Marianne could not refer to that terrible memory. All she
could say was that Alcatraz must be killed--at once! And she said it
with her eyes on fire with detestation.

Indeed, that touch of angry passion in her was the flower of Hermes to
Red Jim, keeping him from complete infatuation when she sang to him,
playing her own lightly-touched accompaniment at the piano. He had
never been entertained like this before. And when a girl sang a love
ballad and at the same time looked at him with eyes at once serious
and laughing, he had to set his teeth and shake himself to keep from
taking the words of the poet too literally. Perhaps Marianne was going
a little farther than she intended. But after all, every good woman
has a tremendous desire to make men