Collins did not know that the aloofness in the eyes of Miss
Wainwright--he had seen the name on her suit-case--gave way to
horror when her glance fell on his gloved hand. She had a swift,
shuddering vision of a grim-faced man, jaws set like a vise,
hacking at his wrist with a hunting-knife. But the engaging
impudence of his eye, the rollicking laughter in his voice, shut
out the picture instantly.
The young man resumed his seat, and Miss Wainwright her listless
inspection of the flying stretches of brown desert. Dusk was
beginning to fall, and the porter presently lit the lamps.
Collins bought a magazine from the newsboy and relapsed into it,
but before he was well adjusted to reading the Limited pounded to
a second unscheduled halt.
Instantly the magazine was thrown aside and Collins' curly head
thrust out of the window. Presently the head reappeared,
simultaneously with the crack of a revolver, the first of a
detonating fusillade.
"Another of your impatient citizens eager to utilize the
unspeakable convenience of rapid transit," suggested the
clergyman, with ponderous jocosity.
"No, sir; nothing so illegal," smiled the cattleman, a whimsical
light in his daredevil eyes.
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