Because — because — her eyes dropped shyly, a slow flush mantled her cheek.
He stared at her blankly for a moment, then his puzzled gaze —(O good!)— fell to the tiny object she was fingering nervously, with dawning comprehension.
Blushing rosily, she tried to conceal the little jacket behind her.
Grace!
A great light broke on him!
Do you mean it?
She went to him with a cry, half laugh, half sob, and buried her burning face in his neck.
You silly boy.
Of course I mean it (you bastard!).
The little dance girl.
Smiling with wet lechery and manipulating his moist rope of cigar, Faro Jim shuffled a pack of cards slowly and fixed on her his vulturesque eye.
A knife in his shiny boots, a small derringer and three aces up his ruffled sleeve, and suave murder in his heart.
But the cold gray eyes of the Stranger missed nothing.
Imperturbably he drank his Scotch, wheeled from the mirror with barking Colt just one-sixth of a second before the gambler could fire.
Faro coughed and slid forward slowly upon the floor.
There was no sound now in the crowded room of the Triple Y.
Men stood petrified.
The face of Bad Bill and the two Mexicans had turned a dirty gray.
Finally, the sheriff spoke, turning with awe from the still figure on the sawdust floor.
“By God, stranger!” he ejaculated,
“I never knew the man lived who could beat Faro to the draw.
What’s yore name?”
“In the fam’ly Bible back home, pardner,” the Stranger drawled, “it’s Eugene Gant, but folks out here generally calls me The Dixie Ghost.”
There was a slow gasp of wonder from the crowd.
“Gawd!” some one whispered.
“It’s the Ghost!”
As the Ghost turned coolly back to finish his interrupted drink, he found himself face to face with the little dancing girl.
Two smoking globes of brine welled from the pellucid depths of her pure eyes and fell with a hot splash on his bronzed hand.
“How can I ever thank you!” she cried.
“You have saved me from a fate far worse than death.”
But the Ghost, who had faced death many times without a flicker of a lash, was unable to face something he saw now in a pair of big brown eyes.
He took off his sombrero and twisted it shyly in his big hands.
“Why, that’s all right, ma’am,” he gulped awkwardly.
“Glad to be of service to a lady any time.”
By this time the two bartenders had thrown a table-cloth over Faro Bill, carried the limp body into the back room, and returned to their positions behind the bar.
The crowd clustered about in little groups, laughing and talking excitedly, and in a moment, as the pianist began to hammer out a tune on the battered piano, broke into the measures of a waltz.
In the wild West of those days, passions were primitive, vengeance sudden, and retribution immediate.
Two dimples sentinelled a platoon of milk-white teeth.
“Won’t you dance with me, Mr. Ghost?” she coaxed.
Thoughtfully he pondered on love’s mystery.
Pure but passionate.
Appearances against her, ’tis true.
The foul breath of slander.
She worked in a bawdy-house but her heart was clean.
Outside of that, what can one say against her?
He thought pleasantly of murder.
With child’s eyes he regarded his extinct enemies.
Men died violently but cleanly, in the movies.
Bang-bang.
Good-by, boys, I’m through.