ning," she said
frankly.

"Kate?"

She nodded.

"That's queer," he mused. "It must've been pure accident. I heard
that the man I came to round up today had a girl named Kate, so I
suppose that was the first name came into my head. Kate, what else?"

"Suppose," she suggested gravely, "we keep the rest for the next time."

"For our next ride?"

She looked just away from his persistent eyes: "Perhaps."

"Will your name," he went on, "surprise me as much as my name surprised
you?"

"Who knows?" she retorted, and speaking she started for the front door.

"Stop." He stepped in front of her just enough to bar her way. There
was a tinge of command in his voice and manner quite new. Halted, but
not pleased, she waited for him to go on: "You'll come back, won't you?"

"I'll try to."

"I want to listen," he added coolly, "to the worst story you ever heard
about Jim Laramie."

"I don't pay much attention to cowboy stories."

He certainly paid no attention to her words: "Will you come back?" he
persisted.

"I will if I can," she said, confusedly.

He was just enough in front of her to detain her: "Say you will."

It was somewhat between command and entreaty. Old Henry at the side of
the platform was just mounting the dun horse. Kate was getting
panicky: "Very well," she answered, "I'll come back."

The moment she got to the cottage she locked the front door and drew
all the shades. And every mouthful of the cold supper she ate with her
father lodged in her throat. To him she dared not say a word. Once in
the evening the door bell rang and some man asked for Barb Doubleday.
He made a few inquiries when Henry answered that Doubleday was not in
town, but he did not ask for Kate. She felt curious tremors, listening
to the low voice. But Laramie--for it was he--presently turned from
the door and she heard his footsteps crunching down the gravel path to
the street.

In the morning Henry told her a man had lingered around the lunch room
until the lights were put out at ten o'clock. By that time he must
have known every pine knot in the varnished ceiling. When peaceably
put out of the room by the night man he had walked out on the platform
to the post where the horses had stood and looked long across the
tracks toward Doubleday's cottage on the hill. No lights were burning
in the cottage. He turned to walk toward it. But as he stepped into
the street the whistle of the eastbound Overland train sound