"I will," said Eve. "And I know he'd want me to thank you for mentioning it."
"I already have my reward, Miss Eve."
"How is that?"
"Talking to you," he answered, inclining his head.
"It seems a slim reward to me," she reflected.
He shook his head. "It is not possible for you to know what things a lonely man finds pleasure in."
She let the silence pile up. Redmain shifted. "Doubtless you will be going to the dance."
"I think so."
He appeared to brace himself, to take a deeper breath. "If I came, I wonder if you might find it possible out of the kindness of your heart to give me a dance."
She met the question squarely, holding his eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Redmain, but I wouldn't want to. And I don't mean to hurt your feelings."
He took the rejection impassively. "A man should never ask too much of a world that gives very little." Then rather gently he added, "You have not hurt my feelings. I quite understand." Raising his hat, he turned quickly and walked away toward the east end of town.
"Why," exclaimed Debbie, "I should have slapped his face!"
"Don't say that," rebuked Eve, looking troubled. But the trouble left her the next moment when Denver swung up to the steps and took a chair. She wrinkled her nose at him. "I have been advertising myself on this porch for one hour, David. What's wrong with my charm?"
He chuckled. "Would have come earlier, but I saw somebody else answerin' the ad, so I waited."
"Then why didn't you come and break into it?" Debbie asked.
"Like to give every man a chance," drawled Denver.
"Do you think he had much chance?" demanded Eve.
"No-o, but the poor fellow needs a little sunshine now and then."
"Sometimes," said Debbie, "I think the men of this county are scared to death of Lou Redmain."
Eve grew impatient. "Debbie, you can say more foolish, unwise things!"
"Well," retorted Debbie, "everybody knows he's an outlaw, and yet he walks into town like he owned it. Why isn't he arrested?"
"Lack of proof," murmured Denver. "One of the funny things about justice is you've got to establish guilt before you can punish. On that score, Redmain's as free as the birds of passage."
"Everybody knows he's guilty," said Debbie. "That's enough."
"So you've joined the vigilantes," grinned Denver. But he sobered quickly. "I doubt if he is ever arrested. I doubt if Sundown jail ever sees him. He'll go like all outlaws go—rough and sudden, out in the hills."
"Something ought to be done," insisted Debbie, not to be shaken.
"Something will be done," Denver reassured her. "And the result may surprise you as well as shock you."
"A large round fact and no mistake," chimed in Steve.
Debbie suppressed him with a single glance and rose. "Steve, I'm going shopping. Come help me carry bundles." Denver watched them depart with doubt on his face.
"She sure treats him rough, Eve."
"I think it's shameful. He stands everything from her."
"Yeah," agreed Denver casually. "But there's just one thing she doesn't know about Mister Stephen Burt Steers. When he finally puts his foot down he does it firm enough to make the welkin ring."
The two of them settled into comfortable silence, side by side, while the sun slid to the west.
"Sunshine's nice," said he.
"But soon gone."
"Not while you're around, Eve."
"Sounds fishy," said Eve skeptically, "but I like it."
Lou Redmain went away from the hotel with clouded eyes. He maintained a set face until, beyond the end of the street, he swung to the north and climbed a wooded trail. And at that point, no longer under inspection, he let the accumulated resentment pour out of him.
"A pariah, an outcast! Not fit to be touched, not good enough to be danced with! That is me—Lou Redmain! I could stand hatred from her better than the pity she showed! Good God, am I not a man like the rest? Haven't I got some decency in me she could see and make allowances for? No, never! I took my trail, and now I've got to travel it alone. I'm branded, and there is no hope of change. Damn them all!"
Even then, swayed by fury, he looked cautiously about him and ducked into a stand of pines. At the head of the trail stood a small house, and he crept beside it guardedly until he saw Lola Monterey standing in the kitchen. The door was open, and through it came the soft, throaty hum of a song. He emerged from shelter and swiftly crossed over. She heard him and turned to the door; but the light in her eyes faded at sight of the man. And a jealous, protective rage swept over his body.
"You were expectin' somebody. Who was it, Lola?"
She shook her head. "Not you, Lou."
"No? What are you doing up here—what kind of a place are you runnin'? By God, the last thing I'll let—"
"Stop it! It is not your right to carry on so."
He choked down his bitterness. "I suppose not. But I took good care of you once. I kept an eye on you. Seems like I'm still tryin' to."
"Have I forgotten it?" she asked him. "What is the matter with you? Here you come storming down as if you were mad."
"I reckon we're all mad," he muttered. "Anybody's mad to take life seriously. Mad as hell."
"You have done something," she observed.
"So. I walked in front of Sundown and asked Eve Leverage for a dance next week. What did I get? Pity!"
"Did you think she would dance with you, Lou?"
He stared at her. "Well, why not? What have you been hearin' about me, Lola?"
"Many, many things. None of them good."
"And you believe them?"
"Look at me," said she softly, "and tell me none of these stories are true."
He accepted the challenge, but of a sudden she was a blur before his eyes, and he dropped his head, groaning. "Why should I? Lola, you were one of the two people in the world I feared to have know about me."
"So I must think of you as a man who once was gay and impulsive and kind—and now is only a memory of that man. Lou—what a fool you have been to throw away all that you might have been!"
"What difference does it make?" he muttered defiantly. "I wasn't born to follow the herd. I was born to go the other way—what is wrong in that? Who has the power of telling me what is wrong? Nobody! The pack makes right—the pack makes wrong! That's all. If I don't run with the pack I'm not ashamed. I am my own law. I am as good as any!"
"You are trying to put glory on your weaknesses. I hate that kind of a thing!"
"Who are you to talk?" he retorted.
He had struck her hard. She drew back, answering slowly, sadly, "Whatever my faults may have been, Lou, they have hurt only me. Never another soul in this world."
The drum of a woodpecker sounded sharp and clear in the late afternoon. Redmain raised his hand with a queer gesture of finality. "I saw it coming. Nothing could keep it from you—about me. There isn't anybody left now who's got any illusions as to the kind of a man I am."
"I remember the kind of a man you once were, Lou," she reminded him.
"Three years ago," he broke in gruffly. "People don't stand still. They