The powerful headlight
shot a widening pathway through the night. Voices came indistinctly from
the vicinity of the machine. Before Walter Stone had reached the bottom
step of the porch, a huge figure appeared from out the shadows. In the
radiance of the porch-light stood a wonderfully attired stranger. Frock
coat, silk hat, patent leathers, striped trousers, and pearl gaiters, a
white vest, and a noticeable watch-chain adorned the driver of the
automobile. He stood for a minute, blinking in the light. Then he swept
his hat from his head with muscular grace. "Excuse me for intrudin'," he
said. "I seen this glim and headed for it. Is Mr. Walter Stone at
lee-sure?"
"I'm Walter Stone," said the rancher, somewhat mystified.
"My name's Summers, Jack Summers, proprietor of the Rose Girl Mine." And
Overland Red, erstwhile sheriff of Abilene, cowboy, tramp, prospector,
gunman, and many other interesting things, proffered a highly engraved
calling-card. Again he bowed profoundly, his hat in his hand, a white
carnation in his buttonhole and rapture in his heart. He had seen Louise
again--Louise, leaning forward, staring at him incredulously. Wouldn't
the Rose Girl be surprised? She was.
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