Over the Pass. Frederick Palmer

there is nothing remarkable in that. You draw on a man. You expect him to throw up his hands or reach for his gun. He does nothing but smile right along the level of the sight into your eyes. It was disturbing to Pete's sense of etiquette on such occasions. It threw him off. There are similar instances in history. A soldier once put a musket at Bonaparte's head. Some of Caesar's legionaries once pressed their swords at his breast. Such old hands in human psychology had the presence of mind to smile. And the history of the West is full of examples which have not been recorded. Go on, Mary!"

      "Ignacio says he has a devil in him," she added.

      "That little Indian has a lot of primitive race wisdom. Probably he is right," her father said soberly.

      "It explains what followed," she proceeded.

      She was emphatic about the reason for her part. She went out to the arroyo on behalf of her responsibility for a human life.

      "But why did you not rouse me? Why did you go alone?" he asked.

      "I didn't think—there wasn't time—I was upset and hurried."

      She proceeded in a forced monotone which seemed to allow her hardly a single full breath.

      "And I am going to kill you!" she repeated, shuddering, at the close of the narrative.

      "When he said that did his face change completely? Did it seem like the face of another man? Yes, did it seem as if there were one face that could charm and another that could kill?" Jasper's words came slowly and with a drawn exactness. They formed the inquiry of one who expected corroboration of an impression.

      "Yes."

      "You felt it—you felt it very definitely, Mary?"

      "Yes."

      She was living over the moment of Jack's transformation from silk to steel. The scene in the arroyo became burning clear. Under the strain of the suppression of her own excitement, concentrated in her purpose to make all the realism of the duel an absurdity, she did not watch keenly for the signs of expression by which she usually knew what was passing in her father's mind. But she was not too preoccupied to see that he was relieved over her assent that there was a devil in Jack Wingfield, which struck her as a puzzle in keeping with all that morning's experience. It added to the inward demoralization which had suddenly dammed her power of speech.

      "Ignacio saw it, too, so I was interested," Jasper added quickly, in a more natural tone, settling back into his chair. His agitation had passed.

      So that was it. Her father's dominant, fine old egoism was rejoicing in another proof of his excellence as a judge of character.

      "Finis! The story is told!" he continued softly.

      All told! And it had been a success. Mary caught her breath in a gay, high-pitched exclamation of realization that she had not to go on with explanations.

      "Our singular cavalier is safe!" she said. "My debt is paid. I need not worry any further lest someone who did me a favor should suffer for it!"

      "True! true!"

      Jasper's outburst of laughter when he had paused in turning down the wick of the lamp the previous evening had been as a forced blast from the brasses. Anyone with strong lungs may laugh majestically; but it takes depth of feeling and years rich with experience to express the gratification that now possessed him. He stretched his hands across the table to her and the laugh that came then came as a cataract of spontaneity.

      "Exactly, Mary! The duel provided the way to pay a debt," he said. "Why, it is you who have done our Big Spurs a favor! He has a wound to show to his friends in the East! I am proud that you could take it all so coolly and reasonably."

      She improved her opportunity while he held her hands.

      "I will go armed next time, and I do know how to shoot, so you won't worry"—she put it that way, rather than openly ask his consent—"if I ride out to the pass?"

      "Mary, I have every reason to believe that you know how to take care of yourself," he answered.

      And that very afternoon she rode out to Galeria, starting a little earlier than usual, returning a little later than usual, in jubilant mood.

      "Everything is the same!" she had repeated a dozen times on the road. "Everything is the same!" she told herself before she fell asleep; and her sleep was long and sweet, in nature's gratitude for rest after a storm.

      The sunlight breaking through the interstices of the foliage of a poplar, sensitive to a slight breeze, came between the lattices in trembling patchwork on the bed, flickering over her face and losing itself in the strands of her hair.

      "Everything is the same!" she said, when her faculties were cleared of drowsiness.

      For the second time she gave intimate, precious thanks for a simple thing that had never occurred to her as a blessing before: for the seclusion and silence of her room, free from all invasion except of her own thoughts. The quicker flow of blood that came with awaking, the expanding thrill of physical strength and buoyancy of life renewed, brought with it the moral courage which morning often brings to flout the compromises of the confusion of the evening's weariness. The inspiriting, cool air of night electrified by the sun cleared her vision. She saw all the pictures on the slate of yesterday and their message plainly, as something that could not be erased by any Buddhistic ritual of reiterated phrase.