"I beg your pardon," she said, sweetly, unsmilingly, "I did not mean to
be rude. But the riders did fascinate me. I am spellbound. I only
wished to see if the charm would hold. I have not been in the West
before this." She held out her hand, slender, white, appealing.
[Illustration: "I beg your pardon," she said, sweetly, unsmilingly, "I
did not mean to be rude."]
The man looked at her curiously in turn, then he jerked off his
sombrero and took her hand in his. There was the contact, soft white
skin of the city, hard brown hand of the mountain plains, and human
blood is swift to leap in response to an unwonted touch.
Connie drew her hand away quickly, but his eyes still held hers.
"Let me beg your pardon instead," he said. "Of course you did not mean
it the way it sounded. None of my business, anyhow."
"Come on, Prince," called a man from the road, curbing his impatient
horse. But "Prince" waved him away without turning.
This was a wonderful girl.
"I--I write stories," Connie explained hurriedly, to get away from that
searching clasp of glances. "I wanted some literary material, and I
seemed so far away from everything. I thought I needed the personal
touch, you know."
"Anything I can tell you?" he offered feverishly.
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