about something I've said. What,
don't you like to have anybody talk about you being a movie-queen? You
sure are all of that. You've got a license to be proud of yourself.
Or maybe you didn't know you was speaking to a Mexican soldier, or
something like that." He made a move to rise. "Ex-cuse ME, if I've
said something I hadn't ought. I'll beat it, while the beating's good."

"No, you won't. You'll stay right where you are." His frank acceptance
of her hostile attitude steadied Jean. "Do you think I came all the
way down here just to say hello?"

"Search me." Art studied her curiously. "I never could keep track of
what you thought and what you meant, and I guess you haven't grown any
easier to read since I saw you last. I'll be darned if I know what you
came for; but it's a cinch you didn't come just to be riding on the
cars."

"No," drawled Jean, watching him. "I didn't. I came after you."

Art Osgood stared, while his cheeks darkened with the flush of
confusion. He laughed a little. "I sure wish that was the truth," he
said. "Jean, you never would have to go very far after any man with
two eyes in his head. Don't rub it in."

"I did," said Jean calmly. "I came after you. I'd have found you if I
had to hunt all through Mexico and fight both armies for you."

"Jean!" There was a queer, pleading note in Art's voice. "I wish I
could believe that, but I can't. I ain't a fool."

"Yes, you are." Jean contradicted him pitilessly. "You were a fool
when you thought you could go away and no one think you knew anything
at all about--Johnny Croft."

Art's fingers had been picking at a loose splinter on the wooden rail
whereon he sat. He looked down at it, jerked it loose with a sharp
twist, and began snapping off little bits with his thumb and
forefinger. In a minute he looked up at Jean, and his eyes were
different. They were not hostile; they were merely cold and watchful
and questioning.

"Well?"

"Well, somebody did think so. I've thought so for three years, and so
I'm here." Jean found that her breath was coming fast, and that as she
leaned back against a post and gripped the rail on either side, her
arms were quivering like the legs of a frightened horse. Still, her
voice had sounded calm enough.

Art Osgood sat with his shoulders drooped forward a little, and
painstakingly snipped off tiny bits of the splinter. After a short
silence, he turned his head and looked at her again.

"I