"
Again the rapier-thrust of their eyes crossed. The sheepman was
satisfied with what he saw in the face of his foe.
"All right. It's a deal," he agreed, and sank weakly back to the
couch.
There are men whose looks are a profanation to any good woman.
Ned Bannister, of the Shoshones, was one of them. He looked at
his cousin, and his ribald eyes coasted back to bold scrutiny of
this young woman's charming, buoyant youth. There was Something
in his face that sent a flush of shame coursing through her rich
blood. No man had ever looked at her like that before.
"Take awful good care of him," he sneered, with so plain an
implication of evil that her clean blood boiled. "But I know y'u
will, and don't let him go before he's real strong."
"No," she murmured, hating herself for the flush that bathed her.
He bowed like a Chesterfield, and went out with elastic heels,
spurs clicking.
Helen turned fiercely on her guest. "Why did you make me insist
on your staying? As if I want you here, as if--" She stopped,
choking with anger; presently flamed out, "I hate you," and ran
from the room to hide herself alone with her tears and her shame.
CHAPTER 14. FOR THE WORLD'S CHAMPIONSHIP
The scene on which Helen Messiter's eyes rested that mellow
Fourth of July was vivid enough to have interested a far more
jaded mind than hers.
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