not a thing. That's what I came down here to tell you--you can
boss my ranch any day."

The girl was visibly alarmed, but as she still stood fascinated by his
eyes and voice, struggling to recover her serenity, another group of
diners came noisily past, and the big man, with a parting look, went out
and took a seat on one of the chairs which stood in a row upon the walk.
The hand which held the cigar visibly trembled, and his companion said:

"Be careful, Mart--"

Haney silenced him with a look. "You're on the outside here, partner."

"I didn't mean to butt in--"

"I understand, but this is a matter between that little girl and me,"
replied the big man in a tone that, while friendly, ended all further
remark on the part of his companion, who rose, after a little pause, and
walked away.

Haney remained seated, buried in thought, amazed at the fever which his
encounter with the girl had put into his blood.

It was true that he had been coming down every Saturday for
weeks--leaving his big saloon on the best evening in the week for a
chance to see this child--this boyish school-girl. In a savage, selfish,
and unrestrained way he loved her, and had determined to possess her--to
buy her if necessary. He knew something of the toil through which the
weary mother plodded, and he watched her bend and fade with a certainty
that she would one day be on his side.

When at home and afar from her, he felt capable of seizing the girl--of
carrying her back with him as the old-time savage won his bride; but
when he looked into her clear, calm eyes his villiany, his resolution
fell away from him. He found himself not merely a man of the nearer
time, but a Catholic--in training at least--and the words he had planned
to utter fell dead on his lips. Libertine though he was, there were
lines over which even his lawlessness could not break.

He was a desperate character--a man of violence--and none too delicate
in his life among women; but away back in his boyhood his good Irish
mother had taught him to fight fair and to protect the younger and
weaker children, and this training led to the most curious and
unexpected acts in his business as a gambler.

"I will not have boys at my lay-out," he once angrily said, to Williams,
his partner, "and I will not have women there. I've sins enough to
answer for without these. Cut 'em out!" He was oddly generous now and
then, and often returned to a greenhorn money enough to get home on.
"Sta