ugh hell folks can't
help having uncles like Ben Pollard. Poor little girl!" And then,
thoughtfully, his eyes filled with speculation as they rested upon
Winifred Waverly, "Mother Mary Sturgis was absolutely right!"

Now the fiddler was tuning with long drawn bow, and the patting of the
guitarist's foot told that he was ready. Thornton, tossing his hat to
the teacher's desk just outside the door, entered the building and
strode straight to the girl. Other men were hurrying across the floor
eager to be first to ask this or that demurely waiting maiden for the
dance, but Thornton was well in the lead. He nodded and smiled and spoke
to many of the women whom he knew, but he did not stop until he came to
Winifred Waverly and Mrs. Sturgis. There he was stopped by the older
woman who had not read his intentions, and who, thinking that he was
going by, took his arm in her two plump hands.

"Why, Buck Thornton, you rascal, you!" she cried heartily. "Where you
been all year? I ain't seen you since I c'n remember. An' where you
think you're goin', stampedin' along like a runaway horse?"

"Howdy, Mother Mary," he returned as they shook hands. "I was headed
right here to see you and Miss Waverly. Howdy, Miss Waverly."

The eyes which the girl turned upon him were wide with surprise. She had
had no thought that he would come here tonight. Surely he must know that
her uncle, the man whom he had robbed, was here! And Broderick,
too--another man whom he had robbed! And how many others? And yet he had
come, he seemed careless and without uneasiness, he dared to speak with
her quite as if that which had happened in Harte's cabin had never
occurred outside of his own imaginings. He even had the assurance to put
out his hand to her! As though she would touch him!...

"Take your pardners for a waltz!" cried Chase Harper of the Tres Pinos,
he of the small boots, coming in through the door, wiping his mouth and
resuming his duties as "caller" of the dances. "Shake a leg, boys!"

The hurried progress of men in search of "pardners" became a race, boots
clumped noisily against the floor, the cowboys swooped down upon the
line of women folks, often enough there was no spoken invitation to the
waltz as a strong arm ran about a lithe waist, the fiddle scraped, the
guitar thrummed into the tune, and with the first note they were
dancing.

CHAPTER XIX

SIX FEET FOUR!

Winifred Waverly looked steadily into Buck Thornton's eyes, sudde