We're not
liable to meet up with each other again _pronto_. To-day we're here
and to-morrow we're at Yuma, Arizona, say, for life is short and darned
fleeting as the poet fellow says."
He waved a hand jauntily and turned to go. But he changed his mind.
His eye had fallen on a young woman standing at a French window of the
house opposite. She was beckoning to him imperiously.
The young woman disappeared as he crossed the street, but in a few
moments the door opened and she stood there waiting for him. Clay
stared. He had never before seen a girl dressed like this. She was in
riding-boots, breeches, and coat. Her eyes dilated while she looked at
him.
"Wyoming?" she asked at last in a low voice.
"Arizona," he answered.
"All one. Knew it the moment I saw you tie him. Come in." She stood
aside to let him pass.
That hall, with its tapestried walls, its polished floors, and Oriental
rugs, was reminiscent of "the movies" to Clay. Nowhere else had he
seen a home so stamped with the mark of ample means.
"Come in," she ordered again, a little sharply.
He came in and she closed the door.
"I'm sopping wet. I'll drip all over the floor."
"What are you going to do? You'll be arrested, you know." She stood
straight and slim as a boy, and the frank directness of her gaze had a
boy's sexless unconsciousness.
"Thought I'd give myself up to the marshal."
She laughed outright at this. "Not in this town. A stranger like you
would have no chance.
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