This pleased Terrill, for she had money to spend, and that was a luxury vastly pleasant. Only Sambo was disconcerting. Boy’s boots and pants did not change his adored young mistress to him.

“Sambo, stop callin’ me Miss Rill,” protested Terrill. “Call me Master Rill.”

“I sho will, Missy Rill, when I thinks aboot it. But you is what you is an’ you can’t nebber be what you ain’t.”

One morning, accompanied by Sambo, she went farther down the main street than usual. The horsemen and wagons and the stage-coaches accorded Terrill an increasing delight. They smacked of the wild, vast open Texas land, about which she had heard so much.

A little store attracted her, but she did not go in the first time she passed it because it stood next to a noisy saloon, in front of which shaggy, dusty saddled horses gave evidence of riders within. But finally Terrill yielded to temptation and entered the store, very soon to forget all about Sambo. When she had indulged her fancy to the extent of compunction, and had started out, she suddenly remembered him. He was nowhere to be seen. Then loud voices outside augmented anxiety to alarm. She ran out. Sambo was not waiting for her.

Terrill started hurriedly down the street, aware that several men were moving violently just ahead of her. As she got even with the door of the saloon it swung open and a man, backing out, collided with her, sending her sprawling. Her packages flew out of her hands. Terrill indignantly gathered herself together, and recovering her belongings, stood up, more resentful than alarmed. But suddenly she froze in her tracks.

The man had a gun in each hand, which he held low down, pointing into the wide open door. All the noise had ceased. Terrill saw men inside, one of whom was squirming on the floor.

“Reckon thet’ll be aboot all,” announced the man with the guns, in a cold voice. “Next time you deal crooked cairds it shore won’t be to Pecos Smith.”

He backed by Terrill. “Kid, untie my hoss. … Thet bay. An’ lead him heah,” he ordered.

Terrill obeyed clumsily. Sheathing one of the guns the man retreated until he bumped into his horse. He had a young clear-cut cold profile, set and ruthless. From the high curb he mounted his horse in a single step.

“Smith, we’ll know next time you happen along,” called a rough voice from the saloon. Then the door swung shut.

“What you shakin’ aboot, boy?” queried Smith, in a cool, drawling voice, suggestive of humor.

“I—I don’t know, sir,” faltered Terrill, letting go the bridle. This was her closest contact with one of these tawny stalwart Texans. And this one had eyes too terrible for her to look into. A smile softened the set of his lean hard face, but did not change those light piercing eyes.

“Wal, I only shot his ear off,” drawled Smith.