Miss Mona's Parlor

Killer for a Day By Ralph R. Perry Dime Western Magazine, June 1946, pages 51-57. This story and artwork are believed to be in the Public Domain. Original copyright 1946 by Popular Publications is believed to have expired. If you have any claim, please contact us: info@hawgleg.com Posted: March 14, 2003

“Jim Starr knew he was as good a man as Red Gaynor – with everything but sixguns!”

JIM STARR loved Belle Forbes. That should come first, because it was always first with Jim. He was one of those tall, slender, quiet-spoken young Texans who have given the State its reputation -- a good man to have fun with, and a better man to have with you in time of trouble.

For instance, loving Belle meant that he was going to give her everything a girl could fairly ask for. He was a good man. He had to be a good man to make himself a Chisholm trail boss at twenty, and he wanted the fact recognized. The upshot was that when he went to see Belle in the spring of '86 he rode with his warbag already packed and tied to the back of his saddle.

Jim had started his own ranch with the wages he had saved in the fall of '85, and the blizzards had wiped out his stock. Just about everybody in the West had been wiped out, too. Just about everybody that spring was figuring whether to tough it out and build again from the bottom, or to take a bigger chance than usual. Jim had decided on the chance. There was a big cattle war on up in New Mexico, and he liked the idea of turning gunfighter for a summer. To restock the ranch for Belle of course. Er, that is mostly for Belle.

Belle noticed the turkey tied behind Jim's saddle when he was still half a mile from her door. Her mouth set at the sight; then she stepped outside to wave to him. It was one of those rare, windless days that come to Texas at the end of May, hot, still, and with a hint of storm hiding in the air. Jim dismounted, and Belle made room on the bench beside her.

"I looked to see you sooner, Jim. Before you were set to take the Trail."

"Hadn't made up my mind yet, Belle. It, well, ain't the Trail,' this year. I'm joinin' Balder's Slash 7 against Averson's Flying A."

"But that's gunfighting, Jim!"

"You figure I'm yellow?" he 'demanded belligerently.

"No, Jim. Of course not."

"It pays big. Why, one summer at those wages!"

"Yes, Jim. Don't argue at me like I was a stranger."
"You don't want me to go. You'd rather I'd nurse fifty measley cows and live on corn pone. What's wrong with gunfighting? Why?"

"Hush up, Jim. You came with your bag packed. You didn't see fit to ask me what I thought, and I don't aim to say. But I would like to know why you picked Balder. Is he payin' more than Averson?"

"No, it's the same wages. But Balder's a Texan, and Averson's a damn yankee."
"I'm glad it ain't money altogether, Jim. That kind of money wouldn't do us any good."

"Reckon we could spend it."

There was a second of silence, and then Belle stood up. She knew her Jim. She had realized from the start that argument was useless.

"Give me a kiss, Jim. I want to wish you luck," Belle said.

But one kiss was all she would give him, and he couldn't get one other word from her that mattered.

THREE days later and two hundred odd miles to the north, Jim rode toward a saloon at a crossroads on the edge of the Yellow Sands in New Mexico. When he stepped from the hot, bright sunlight into the gloomy interior he couldn't distinguish faces, but three men confronted him, spread out so that one was at the center of the bar, one on the right, and one on the left. Their backs were to the mahogany, their drinks were half-finished and the spooked bartender was ready to duck lead.

Those three could be on the trail to hire their guns to the Slash 7, as he was. Only they weren't. Jim didn't kid himself. The Flying A had already hired these gunfighters; held them here to cut off reinforcements. He wasn't going to make a stake after all. His trail to the Slash 7 was going to end right here.

"You're turning around and heading south, ain't you, fella?" asked the gun-toter in the center in a flat, deadly voice.

"Me? Why, I'm buyin' a whiskey," Jim temporized. Why?”

The door behind him was flung open. Another man stood at his side, but Jim dared not look sidewise.

"Bar's closed," snapped the gun-toter to the newcomer. "You better head south.”

A Colt boomed at Jim's elbow, and the gunman suddenly folded in the middle, as though his backbone had snapped in half. The Flying A men on the right and left slapped leather. Jim went for his own gun, while shot after shot lanced from the newcomer beside him. Jim finally fired once, but his bullet sped at a man who was already falling. That was the gunhawk on his left, pitching forward with blood spurting from his throat. The gun-toter on his right, caught at the bar, crumpled.

A hand slapped Jim on the back.

"Two whiskies, an' no chasers, eh, pardner?"

The cold bloodlust in the voice was like ice on Jim's spine. He turned to see a man about his own age and height, with gray eyes like his own, but with carroty red hair where Jim's was sandy.

"I'm Red Gaynor," the stranger announced. "You look kinda, spooked."

"I - I think I'm goin' to be sick," Jim stuttered, He stepped out into the sunlight, and was, while the yellow desert and the bright blue sky swung in slow circles and steadied again. So that was Red Gaynor. Red Gaynor, the most notorious gunfighter in the Southwest. He'd knocked off these three like flies; and if be hadn't, it would have been Jim Starr lying there on the floor, and the Flying A warriors taking the drinks.

"You wouldn't have sold out to Averson's Flying A?" Red was demanding of the bartender as Jim stumbled back into the saloon. The famous gunfighter was sipping a whiskey and grinning, but the edge of his tongue kept moistening his lips. The barkeep, pasty white, had backed as far away from Red as he could get.

"No ... no, for God's sake! They stuck me up – "

Red vaulted the bar and bit the cringing man on the side of the head with the barrel of a Colt. He hit hard, evidently not caring if the blow should prove fatal. He calmly pushed back the batwings and walked out.

"Pull your eyes back into your head, pardner. You taking the trail to the Slash 7?"

"Plannin' to," said Jim. "I'm sure obliged to you; mister. But where did you drop from?"

"I was hid out in a draw. I watched you ride up and go on in. Never step from the sun into a place where folks can watch you comin' from far off, pardner. And if you aim to be a gunfighter, start first. Hell, these three were tenderfeet. They were waitin' for you to draw, and you were goin' to draw."

"Yeah, reckon I was," Jim muttered.
"Well, that's something," said Red briskly. "I kind of taken a notion to you, pardner. Stick to me and I'll make a gunfighter out of you yet."

THE trail to the Slash 7 skirted the famous Yellow Sands and climbed a succession of hills, up and up, to end at last in a little cowtown strung along the bottom of a steep and narrow canyon. It was well after dark before they reached their destination, and as they looked down at the tiny string of lights set in a pale void of moonlight, everything seemed at peace.

Indeed, the town was too quiet. No one at all was moving on the street, and only two saloons were doing any business. Before one of these more than thirty horses were tethered; at the other, less than twenty. Jim read the brands. They were joining the weaker party.

"What do you say, pardner?" Red inquired.

"Don't call me pardner when you don't mean it," Jim protested.

"Maybe I do mean to call yuh pardner," said Red. "I ain't quite sure yet, but you got no call to get proddy."

"Why, I never--"

"Cowpoke," Red cut in witheringly, "a good gunfighter can always even up the odds. You sure need trainin', mister."

Jim was humiliated by the rebuke, for he could not help admiring both Red's courage and his self confidence. Jim could understand why Red was spoken of with awe from Texas to Wyoming. Really to be the partner of such a man -- to have punchers talk of Red Gaynor and Jim Starr -- that would be something. Though "Jim Starr" didn't have quite the swing he would have liked.

Red Gaynor walked into the saloon which was Slash 7 headquarters with Jim a few steps behind him. A murmur ran through the crowd.

The gunfighter pretended not to notice the attention he attracted. He walked straight to a horse-faced man dressed in broadcloth.

"Balder?" he inquired. "You owe me a month's pay."

"For what?" retorted the cattleman harshly. He made a gesture, and a tough, swarthy hombre stepped to his side, facing Red.

"Shootin' three Flying A men. Which is more than the rest of your outfit has done."

"That's what you say," snapped the swarthy man.

"Shut up and sit down while I talk to your boss," said Red calmly.
"Yeah? Lis--"

The swarthy man never got any further. Even Jim, who had seen Red work before and who had an inkling of what might happen, did not really see Red move until the whole thing was over. Red drew cross-handed, Texas style, and with a full-armed swing that was part of the same motion, smacked the swarthy man across the temple with the barrel of the Colt. The man went down like an ox. Red, licking his lips, thumbed the hammer close to Balder's belly.

"That's what I said," Red went on without the slightest change of expression. "A month's 'pay for me is five hundred dollars, Balder."

"You'll get it -- when I pay off."

"I'll get it right now, Balder -- or earn my pay somewhere else."

"Pay him from the bar, Jake," Balder gave in.

Red Gaynor bolstered the Colt, and half backing to the bar, took the gold pieces which the barkeep shoved toward him. As Red caught Jim's eye he winked. Then he cleared his throat.

"An' now, Balder, what are you aimin' to, do?" he asked. "Looks to me like Averson has you cornered."

"I never ran away yet," the cattleman blustered.

Red's laugh jarred the silence.

"You talk big, Red," said Balder nastily.

"I talk turkey instead of blattin' foolishness. Now listen to me. I looked over the layout from the rim of the canyon, and here's what we should do."

He outlined his plan: The simple, wartested strategem of the apparently panic stricken retreat which lures an overconfident enemy into ambush. But the twist Red gave to the scheme made it pure murder. Horsemen were to be shot down by men afoot in dark alleys. The picture put butterflies in Jim's stomach, but he could see hope creep into the faces which listened -- hope and admiration, only slightly touched with doubt on the faces of John Balder and a few others.

"That will finish the Flying A, all right," Balder agreed. "Only thing is, who's going to handle our loose horses? That's a box canyon below here, an—“

"That's right, boss. Count me out," spoke up a man at the bar.

"The hombre who came with me will handle them," Red cut in curtly. "Jim here has the guts for the job. Ain't that so, Jim?"

"Yeah, sure," Jim agreed. Better a headlong gallop down a steep and rocky trail, he thought, than a share in cold-blooded slaughter.

"Anything else, gents?" Red demanded. "No? Okay, then, let's go."

He was hurrying them. They tightened their belts and looked to their weapons. Then, in a panic that was pretended, and yet which was very close to the real thing, they ran for their horses as though seeking safety in flight.

They were quickly discovered, and a bullet snarled up the street. From the Flying A saloon men came boiling out, leaping to their saddles. Half the Slash 7 was running, the rest already mounted. Red caught Jim's arm. The gunfighter's face was alive, eager.

"Not too fast," he warned. "Don't let ary horse turn. It's plumb up to you, Jim!"

He paid no attention to the lead that buzzed around him. For a few yards he even galloped behind Jim, as though to make sure Jim was not crowding too hard after the others. Then he spurred ahead.

THAT mad dash down the single street was over. It had taken, perhaps, twenty seconds. Even to Jim, the trick worked so smoothly that the effect was uncanny. One second and he was the last of about a score of mounted men, all flattened to their saddles because they were under fire. Twenty seconds later, and he was the only man riding in the rear of a score of galloping horses. One by one the Slash 7 gunmen had dismounted on the run, letting their mounts gallop on. Only a few ponies slackened pace; these Jim lashed with a quirt.

Behind him a Winchester cracked, and a man screamed. Next came a steady crackle of shots, like the rippling smack of a stick run along a picket fence.. The Flying A was running a gauntlet of fire. Rifles to right and left, aimed at point-blank range. Nothing to shoot back at but the flashes.

It was a massacre where the faint-hearted tried to pull up, and were slaughtered as they turned to flee. The braver spurred ahead and trusted to luck to reach darkness at the end of the street. The shots boomed and echoed, and behind Jim now spurred the few survivors of the Flying A.

He was not too greatly worried, for he was on a good horse, and he was herding saddled remounts. The danger was that of any swift night ride -- the prairie dog hole or the rolling stone that throws horse and rider. He was breezing along down a canyon, even noticing that it curved in a great sweep from east to north, when rifles flamed in his face and his horse dropped from under him. He flew through the air and hit; then blackness...

Burning pains in his arms and body brought him to. As he moved, cactus thorns pricked him. He relaxed. A stone tolled, not far away, and a man swore.

"That Slash 7 hombre did so catch another horse, Bill," a voice said. "Yuh dropped him, sure, but I seen him heave himself up again. He's gone now."

"Gone nothing, I drilled him clean," bragged another voice, farther away. "What gets me is, where's the rest of the Slash 7? All their horses, but only one rider."

"Here's more comin' !"

"Not so many, at that . . . Better hail 'em, Tom."

Grimly Jim blessed the luck that bad dropped him into a cactus thicket. He began to get the picture: The canyon swung from east to north, and evidently there was a short cut from town across the ridge. A few of the Flying A had taken that path to cut off the escape of the Slash 7. Balder must have known of the short-cut. That was why the local men had refused to handle the horses. They had not bothered to warn him -- perhaps for fear he'd back out of the job, perhaps to get even for the way Red and he had made them eat crow.

Did Red know about that trail? Jim wondered about that, even with Flying A gunmen all around him, and more arriving.

He got the story from panted comments exchanged between sweating riders. The sheriff was dead. The chief deputy was dead. Jim hadn't realized there was a sheriff with the Flying A. Balder had kept quiet about that, too.

"We caught one of their punchers," called the man named Bill.

"To hell with him!" came the answer. "There's plenty of the Slash 7 you didn't get, and they've got Red Gaynor with 'em now. Me, I'm hitting the breeze."

That seemed to be the consensus. It was all very quick. A rush of hoofs; a few angry oaths and then the pound of hoofs again, like muffled thunder.
Jim hauled himself painfully out of the cactus. His horse was shot, and his gun was not in its holster. He went to get his carbine from the saddle boot, but found the weapon wedged under the weight of the dead horse. There was nothing left but to walk back. The distance was three or four miles, and the fall bad shaken him badly.

He walked' unsteadily. He had been sent into a trap. He had been a target as helpless as the Flying A gun-toters he had lured into this massacre. He felt a white-hot anger, suddenly.

He stumbled along for what might have been as much as a half mile or as little as two hundred yards. All he was sure, of was that an interval did occur before his next clear impression, and that even then his muscles were too slow to react.

Out of black shadow walked a horse carrying a man whose chin touched his chest. The horse snorted and stopped, close enough for Jim to touch. The man moved in the saddle, and Jim caught the glint of moonlight on a gun.

Then the gun dropped at Jim's feet, and the man toppled after it.
Jim caught the horse. The flanks of the animal dripped blood, and in the moonlight the man's shirt was black with blood. His hat had fallen off, revealing a batch of gray hair.

"You Averson?" Jim asked. He didn't see any star, so it couldn't be the sheriff.

"I'm Averson, and t’hell with you," muttered the man.

Jim picked up the gun. There was a canteen on the saddle. He drank then, about to give the wounded man a drink, hesitated. "You gutshot?" "I dunno." Jim investigated. Averson had been hit once in the chest and once in the back. Both wounds were high.

"Spit any blood?" Jim asked.

"No, damn yuh."

"Then you'll be all right, Here, drink," And Jim lifted Averson's head.

The face was hard and strong, but pale as dough. The water would help. It had strengthened Jim.

"Can you ride?" he asked.

"For what?" Averson asked bitterly.

"Go to hell." said Jim. "I can tie you in the saddle, but damned if I'll wet nurse you."

"You're Slash 7. Changing sides?"

"I hire out just once, and I go just so far, Averson. I came fixed to fight, but all I've seen is killing. Grab me round the neck and I'll lift You."

He got Averson into the saddle, though the effort started his wounds bleeding. He tied Averson's feet under the horse's belly with a pigging string.

"Your men are down the canyon a piece. I reckon you'll make it," he said.

"Adios."

"Better come with me." Averson hesitated, then added: "You're a cowhand, and I'll need cowhands."

"I own my brand, mister."

"The sheriff was with me," Averson said. "All my riders were legal deputies."

"Tell that to a judge," said Jim bitterly. "You're a range hog, and so is Balder. To hell with both of you! It's a girl back in Texas I'm thinking about."

He slapped the pony with his hat to start it moving. His anger was beginning to rise again, He had not noticed that Averson's gun was ivory-handled and silver-mounted. He was merely thankful to have a weapon on his hip again.

TWO of the Slash 7 gunmen -- Jim didn't even know their names -- met him a mile further on. They seemed surprised to see him, at which he didn't wonder, and the caution with which they were moving made him smile sourly.

When they asked him how close they were to the Flying A crew, Jim answered, truthfully enough, "Too damn close." Both men were eager for an excuse to turn back, and one took him up behind.

They weren't exuberant over the massacre of the Flying A and Jim could now guess the reason. As territorial governor, General Lew Wallace had brought law into the high country, And to down a sheriff in cold blood was bad medicine as the grave of Billy the Kid testified. It meant Federal marshals; if need be, U.S. cavalry.

The Slash 7 had reassembled at the saloon in town. Most of them were lined up at the bar, and the bottle was sliding rapidly up and down.

"Drink?" a kid with a tough face and pale eyebrows grunted at Jim.

Jim filled a glass. The Kid matched it.

"And the sheriff had a warrant for Balder," he said.

Jim set down his glass and promptly refilled it. The kid kept with him.

"You from this country?"

"No," said Jim.

"I am -- or was. I was plumb glad when you and your pardner came along." He spoke with a kind of wonder.

"Listen," said Jim. "Red Gaynor is no pardner of mine. We met on the trail, and followed it together for a spell. That's about all -- except that I owe him a favor."

The liquor was putting new life in Jim, He hadn't noticed Red and Balder, but now he saw them at a table, half concealed by the corner of the bar. Neither was drinking, and though Red was dealing cards, they were not playing. Although Red seemed preoccupied, he now caught Jim's eye and beckoned to him with an all but imperceptible nod.

Balder looked up indifferently as Jim approached. Then he tensed suddenly.

"That's Averson's gun you've got!" he exclaimed.

"Told you I cracked down on him. I never miss," said Red coldly.

"That's right. You didn't miss," said Jim.

A grin split Balder's mouth. The tobacco stained teeth made Jim think of a pike tossed on a mud bank -- gasping but coldly vicious.

"Averson's heirs are a parcel of Eastern dudes," Balder said. "They can't run this range no how. I'll take a pasear into Old Mexico till this blows over, and then move back in."

"It'll be Averson that'll be waiting for you, not his heirs," said Jim. "He's a tough old rooster. He was carrying Red's lead plumb jaunty."
"That joke ain't funny," Balder snapped. "I know Averson. You'd never get his gun while he could still lift a finger."

"That's right," Jim agreed. "We traded. I didn't have a gun, and he couldn't climb back on his horse alone. I tied him to the saddle, and we parted satisfied."

"Why, you--" Balder began.

"Easy on what yuh call Jim. Looks to me like he's been thinkin'," Red cut in. "You could have plugged Averson, but didn't. Why?" he asked Jim.

"That's my business."

"Not altogether, Jim." Red stacked the cards neatly on the table. He said, "You're sore at me."

"I ain't scared of you any," said Jim. "Sure, I'm sore at you. You ran me into a trap."

"No," Red said. "No, Jim, I didn't. Think fast, Jim. You were right beside me from start to finish. This is strange country to me, too. Was anything said about a short-cut on the canyon trail?"

"No, but you cut in and kept them from talkin'."

"Right," Red admitted. "Jim, I don't join a range war to lose. When they started talkin' I knew my scheme wasn't as good as it looked, but it was good enough to win with. I didn't want to find out what was wrong. There's always something that ain't perfect, and if you talk too much you get cold feet and don't do nothing. Sure, I shoved you into the tight spot. You're a gunfighter, ain't yuh? Well, I figured you had the stuff to get out."

"You might have let me do my own thinking," Jim growled.

"Suppose I had. If you'd known about that short-cut, would you have driven the horses ?"

"I reckon I would," Jim admitted. "But not so far."

"Well, there yuh are," declared Red triumphantly. "And you're back, ain't yuh? Okay -- now why didn't you plug Averson?"

"Because I got a girl in Texas, and Belle wouldn't marry a murderer," answered Jim. "He was licked and plumb helpless. There was no reason to kill him."

"Right, pardner," said Red Gaynor. "Pardner, you and me fight to win. We're better off this minute with Averson livin'."

"Are yuh loco?" Balder exploded. And in the same breath Jim snapped, "I'm no pardner of yours, Red. Damned if I'm any coldblooded killer!"

“Jim, I say yuh are. And I'm cuttin' yuh in right now, pardner –fifty-fifty. You've got plenty of nerve, pardner, an' you're gettin' the savvy... For instance, Balder, we don't fight a range war for nothin' either. That warrant had you licked when we walked in that door, and you told me nothing about that, nor about a sheriff, either."

"You didn't ask," the cattleman evaded.

"Maybe so. But I'm askin' you to play me poker, right now. Yuh 'Near me, Balder."

Jim didn't get the idea, but Balder did. His horse-face stiffened and grew pale.

"I don't feel like poker," he hedged.

"Then reach for a gun_ yuh damn lyin' tinhorn!" Red threatened in a whisper. "Yo're gettin' off cheap. I'm goin' to rake in all the dinero you can raise in this town tonight, and then me and my pardner are gonna vamoose. Yuh think we're cowpokes? Yuh think we'll stick to yuh like those fools at the bar, and git ourselves killed for nothing? Not me I Balder. I'm a gunman. Yuh pay -- or fight."

Red was not bluffing. There was sweat on Balder's forehead and surrender in his eyes. In a few minutes there would be money paid, of which Jim would get half -- half of what Red extorted by cold killings and trickery and a double cross on a man terrified by his reputation.

"Reckon I'll do the fighting here," said Jim aloud.

As he spoke he swung his fist to the angle of Red's jaw. The punch toppled Red from his chair and knocked him cold. As he fell, Averson's gun appeared in Jim's hand, leveled at Balder.

"Don't move, gents. This is a private fuss," he sang out, and backed off a little, so that without losing the drop on Balder he could cover the line of men at the bar. He was smiling, and his voice was easy, and he'd have shot at the twitch of a finger. He had learned plenty from Red.

"Red was goin' to plug the boss for callin' him yellow, but I figured that was going too far," Jim said. "Red and me, we figure this war is over. We're ridin' out of here, and Balder didn't like that. But he ain't got no more objections. That's right, ain't it, Balder ?"

"That's right." Balder gulped. Sweat beaded his forehead.

"Bring me a Slash 7 horse. Mine was killed. And get Red's," Jim ordered. He stooped swiftly, took both guns from Red's holsters and thrust them into his own belt.

Red was coming to. He sat up. His right hand moved, then dropped, palm open and upward, against his chaps. He had reached, touched an empty holster, and relaxed, and so swiftly that he seemed merely to have moved his hand. He looked once at Jim; then rose, his face pale in contrast to his carroty hair.

"We're leavin', Red" Jim said.

"Adios, then, gents." Red's voice was quiet, steely. He walked into the night and climbed, on the horse that had been brought, with Jim mounting close behind him. Without orders, Red took the trail up the canyon. They went a hundred yards before a babble of excited talk broke out in the saloon behind them. As they climbed, the sounds faded out, and then they had come out into full moonlight on the canyon's rim, and were looking down again at the thin string of lights that marked the town.

"I owed yuh a favor, Red," Jim said.

"Yuh got a hell of a way of payin' debts. I thought yuh wanted to be a gunfighter!"

"Damn all gunfighters!" said Jim. "I did want to be once, like a damn fool. I wonder now that Belle was even willin' to give me one kiss for goodbye... I'm going to take your horse, Red. I'll leave it at the foot of the hill, with your guns. You won't have to walk far. If you're sore -- well, I'm goin' to Tres Rios, in Texas. I'll be right there from now on, buildin' fifty head into a herd. That'll just take time and work, but if you come after me, I'll git you like ary other rattlesnake. I can't match your speed, but I ain't spooked of you none. Ranchmen like me are going to run this country, and hombres like you and Balder and Averson better remember it."

"Jim, I called yuh pardner, and meant it," said Red in his cold flat voice. "Why did yuh turn on me right then, Jim? I ain't a sorehead like you, Jim. I forget it, and take the next trail. But I don't savvy. You'll go home, and yuh'll marry this girl and spend your life punchin' a measley herd of stock. If there's ever real trouble in your county, you'll make a right good deputy sheriff. But that’s your only chance your name'll ever get known a hundred miles from yore home. And we might have been dividin' a couple of thousand, right now. It might have been Red Gaynor and Sudden Jim. We'd have been as well known as Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday."

"That kind of money don't raise cattle nor make a wife happy," answered Jim coldly. "Adios, Red. Guess you never will be able to savvy this."

BELLE FORBES was waiting at the corral gate when Jim rode in. Her hair and skirt were flying in the wind, and her face was lifted, grave as a judge's. If she wondered why he was back after only six days, she made no sign.

He thought again how pretty she was, but he did not intend to dismount until he had made an explanation. He sat saddle, trying to find words to tell her why he had come home without two bits and was damned glad of it.

Then all at once Belle smiled up at him and said: "You can kiss me, Jim."

He stared at her, wondering how she knew he was different, and she looked back at him with an expression he had never seen on her face before. If he could make her look at him like that once in a while he knew that nothing else mattered, nor ever would.

"You're thinking about me," Belle said. "You haven't got your mind set on anything else. Oh, Jim, dear, please always remember I can't change your mind for you, but I have got a right to help you make it up. And now light down and kiss me, Jim. It ain't modest for me to ask you twice."

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