As he did so he
caught a glimpse of the faces of the two men at whom he had winked so
knowingly, heard one of them break into loud, hearty laughter.
Dropping the magazine to her lap, the lavender young man, with what
dignity he could command, marched back to the smoking-car.
A few minutes later Greek Conniston, returning to the smoking-car,
found his friend pinching his smooth cheek thoughtfully and frowning
out the window. He dropped into his chair, deep in thought. In the
brief interval he had taken his resolution, plunging, as was his
careless nature, after the first impulse. The girl had interested him;
he did not yet realize how much. She came aboard the train without bag
or baggage. Certainly she could not be going far. And he--it didn't
matter in the least where he went. All that he had to do was to keep
out of his father's way until the old man cooled down, and then to
wire for money. His ticket read to San Francisco, but he had no desire
to go there rather than to any other place. And he told himself that
he had a sort of curiosity about this bleak, monotonous desert land.
An hour later the train ran into another little clutter of buildings
and drew up, puffing, at the station. Conniston's eyes were alert,
fixed upon the passageway from the observation-car rather than on the
view from his window. Mail-bags were tossed on and off, a few packages
handled by the Wells Fargo man, and the train pulled out.
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