he was looking at Laramie as she spoke.

"You're a good observer," he said.

"How so?"

"A man's eyes are all there is to him. You don't mind if I smoke?"

"Not a bit."

He drew a sack of tobacco from a breast pocket.

"Not going to run away, are you?" He was fishing for cigarette paper
when he asked. He spoke as if he had no special interest in the
matter, yet the question startled her. Kate had not made a move to go,
but she _was_ thinking, when the question came, of how she might manage
to escape. She flushed a little at being anticipated in her
intention--just enough perhaps to let him see he had caught her, not to
say irritated her. As luck would have it, Van Horn, who had risen,
sauntered towards them. Kate was glad just then to see him: "I hope
you got enough to eat," she said as he approached.

He seemed stiff--Kate did not realize what he was put out about. He
made some answer and turned to Laramie. She felt at once the friction
between the two men, not from anything she had reason to suspect or
know--for she knew then nothing whatever of their personal relations.
Nor was it from anything said; for an instant neither man spoke.
Instinct must have made her conscious for as soon as Van Horn looked at
Laramie she felt the tension: "Well, Jim, where'd you blow from?"
demanded Van Horn after a pause.

Laramie was making ready to smoke. He was in no haste to answer, nor
did he look at Van Horn, but continued, cowboy fashion, rolling his
cigarette in the finger-tips of one hand, his other hand resting on his
hip: "I didn't blow," he retorted.

"How'd you get here?" asked Van Horn.

"I was invited."

Van Horn laughed significantly. While Kate would rather have been out
of it, she thought it proper, since she was in it, to say something
herself: "I didn't suppose anybody needed a special invitation for a
Fourth of July celebration," she interposed. "The town has been
covered for two weeks with bills inviting everybody."

Van Horn laughed again. "It wasn't you invited him, eh?" he demanded
of Kate. The thing was said so unpleasantly she would have retorted on
impulse, but Laramie took any possible words out of her mouth.

"Why don't you ask me who invited me? Barb Doubleday invited me.
That's enough, isn't it? And Pettigrew invited me. And," he added,
completing his cigarette in leisurely fashion, "while that wouldn't be
any particular inducement--you invited me."

Van Horn stared: "How