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head.
    “Good evening, Mr. Slade,” she said coolly, and turned back toward the bar.

Chapter Three
    Somewhat taken aback by the casual greeting, Slade stared at her. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words, something quite unusual for El Halcon. He tried a jocular remark—
    “Looking for your gentleman friend?”
    “Which one?” she asked, without turning her head. Again the normally poised and thoroughly selfsufficient Ranger appeared somewhat off balance. And he experienced a sense of irritation. Or was it wounded vanity? His black brows drew together and he regarded her in silence, with the sense of irritation or whatever the devil it was completely taking over.
    “Sorry to have intruded,” he said stiffly, and half turned to go, failing to note the slyly sideways glint of the big eyes.
    Suddenly she laughed—a gay, ringing laugh, her little teeth flashing white against the scarlet of her lips.
    “Don’t look so put out, my dear,” she said. “I saw your name on the hotel register and just thought I’d have a little fun. Sit down, darling, and don’t mind me.”
    “Jerry Norman,” he replied, “you are a devil!”
    “Uh-huh, but you used to say I was a nice devil,” she said.
    “And I still say it,” he answered, “but you’ve got the sense of humor of an imp!” He sat downand gazed appreciatively at her elfinly beautiful little heart-shaped face.
    “So you did come back!” she voiced the obvious.
    “Didn’t I tell you I would?” he countered.
    “Yes, but of course I didn’t believe you. Or at least that it would be so soon, with all the stops you must have had to make.”
    “Stops?”
    “Of course. How are all your women?”
    “Women!” He endeavored to look indignantly innocent, and failed signally. Jerry giggled and regarded him with dancing eyes.
    “Oh, I don’t mind, too much,” she said. “I think I’d worry more if there were only one; then you might get really interested in her.”
    “It’s just possible that I am really interested in only one,” he replied with a meaningful glance.
    “Perhaps,” she conceded, her beautiful eyes suddenly slightly wistful, “but remember the last lines of your song—I’ll never forget them—
    ‘But oh, the wind upon the trail!
    And the dust of gypsy feet!’
    “As I said once before, the wind and the dust and the gypsy trails—those are the real rivals.”
    Walt Slade was silent.
    Very quickly she was gay and laughing once more. “Uncle Keith was overjoyed when he saw your name on the register and knew you were in town, and so were the boys, and old Pedro, the cook, of course,” she said.
    “I’ll be glad to see all of them, and it’s wonderful to see you again,” he replied.
    “Nice of you to say it,” she said. “And are you going to take me down to that lovely place, the Washout, again, and that nice Mr. Yates?”
    “I’ve a notion that adjective has never before been applied to the Washout,” he answered. “But Thankful Yates is nice. Yes, I’ll take you, if you really wish to go. Don’t forget, things were a bit rough the last time we were there.”
    “And I liked it, even though I was scared stiff for a minute,” she said. “Soon as I saw you were all right, I really enjoyed the excitement.”
    “Yes, I think you did,” he replied. “But remember what the sheriff said—flying lead plays no favorites.”
    “And perhaps you’ll remember that flying lead doesn’t frighten me to an extent I don’t know what’s the right thing to do,” she countered.
    “Yes, I remember,” he admitted soberly. “I’m not likely to forget it.”
    “Uncle Keith and the boys will be here after a while,” she said. “They stopped at a place on Filmore Street, where they have some friends. We don’t have to wait for them, though; we’ll see them later.”
    Slade glanced toward the bar, where old John Fletcher and Clyde Brent, glasses in hand, were conversing animatedly, the two outfits mingling.
    At the moment,