y at that part of the street which was another
country, from the hills away to the west, where were camped
soldiers,--the American soldiers,--who prevented the war from slopping
over the line now and then into Arizona, came the clear notes of a
bugle held close-pressed against the lips of a United States soldier in
snug-fitting khaki. The boom of the sundown salute followed
immediately after. In the street below her, Mexicans and Americans
mingled amiably and sauntered here and there, killing time during that
bored interval between eating and the evening's amusement.

Just beyond the Mexican boundary, the door of a long, adobe cantina was
flung open, and a group of men came out and paused as if they were
wondering what they should do next, and where they should go. Jean
looked them over curiously. Mexicans they were not, though they had
some of the dress which belonged on that side of the boundary.

Americans they were; one knew by the set of their shoulders, by the
little traits of race which have nothing to do with complexion or
speech.

Jean caught her breath and leaned forward. There was Art Osgood,
standing with his back toward her and with one palm spread upon his hip
in the attitude she knew so well. If only he would turn! Should she
run down the stairs and go over there and march him across the line at
the muzzle of her revolver? The idea repelled her, now that she had
actually come to the point of action.

Jean, now that the crisis had arrived, used her woman's wile, rather
than the harsher but perhaps less effective weapons of a man.

"Oh, Art!" she called, just exactly as she would have called to him on
the range, in Montana "Hello, Art!"

Art Osgood wheeled and sent a startled, seeking glance up at the
veranda; saw her and knew who it was that had called him, and lifted
his hat in the gesture that she knew so well. Jean's fingers were
close to her gun, though she was not conscious of it, or of the
strained, tense muscles that waited the next move.

Art, contrary to her expectations, did the most natural thing in the
world. He grinned and came hurrying toward her with the long, eager
steps of one who goes to greet a friend after an absence that makes of
that meeting an event. Jean watched him cross the street. She waited,
dazed by the instant success of her ruse, while he disappeared under
the veranda. She heard his feet upon the stairs. She heard him come
striding down the hall to the g