Wyoming. William MacLeod Raine

      “Ce'tainly, but if y'u decide that way y'u better step out on the porch and talk it over with us where there ain't ladies present.”

      “Isn't this a costume dance? What's the matter with my guns? I'm an outlaw, ain't I?”

      “I don't know whether y'u are or not, seh. If y'u say y'u are we're ready to take your word. The guns have to be shucked if y'u stay here. They might go off accidental and scare the ladies.”

      The man rose blackly. “I'll remember this. If y'u knew who y'u were getting so gay with—”

      “I can guess, Mr. Holloway, the kind of an outfit y'u freight with, and I expect I could put a handle to another name for you.”

      “By God, if y'u dare to say—”

      “I don't dare, especially among so many ladies,” came McWilliams's jaunty answer.

      The eyes of the two men gripped, after which Holloway swung on his heel and swaggered defiantly out of the house.

      Presently there came the sound of a pony's feet galloping down the road. It had not yet died away when Texas announced that the supper intermission was over.

      “Pardners for a quadrille. Ladies' choice.”

      The dance was on again full swing. The fiddlers were tuning up and couples gathering for a quadrille. Denver came to claim Miss Messiter for a partner. Apparently even the existence of the vanished Holloway was forgotten. But Helen remembered it, and pondered over the affair long after daylight had come and brought with it an end to the festivities.