Number seven was churning its way furiously through brown Arizona. The day
had been hot, with a palpitating heat which shimmered over the desert
waste. Defiantly the sun had gone down beyond the horizon, a great ball of
fire, leaving behind a brilliant splash of bold colors. Now this, too, had
disappeared. Velvet night had transformed the land. Over the distant
mountains had settled a smoke-blue film, which left them vague and
indefinite.
Only three passengers rode in the Pullman car. One was a commercial
traveler, busy making up his weekly statement to the firm. Another was a
Boston lady, in gold-rimmed glasses and a costume that helped the general
effect of frigidity. The third looked out of the open window at the
distant hills. He was a slender young fellow, tanned almost to a coffee
brown, with eyes of Irish blue which sometimes bubbled with fun and
sometimes were hard as chisel steel. Wide-shouldered and lean-flanked he
was, with well-packed muscles, which rippled like those of a tiger.
At Chiquita the train stopped, but took up again almost instantly its
chant of the rail. Meanwhile, a man had swung himself to the platform of
the smoker. He passed through that car, the two day coaches, and on to the
sleeper; his keen, restless eyes inspected every passenger in the course
of his transit. Opposite the young man in the Pullman he stopped.
"May I ask if you are Lieutenant O'Connor?"
"My name, seh."
The young man in the seat had slewed his head around sharply, and made
answer with a crisp, businesslike directness.
The new-comer smiled. "I'll have to introduce myself, lieutenant. My name
is Flatray. I've come to meet you."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Flatray. I hope that together we can work this
thing out right. MacQueen has gathered a bunch that ought to be cleaned
out, and I reckon now's the time to do it. I've been reading about him for
a year. I've got a notion he's about the ablest thing in bad men this
Territory has seen for a good many years."
Flatray sat down on the seat opposite O'Connor. A smile flicked across his
face, and vanished. "I'm of that opinion myself, lieutenant."
"Tell me all about this affair of the West kidnapping," the ranger
suggested.
The other man told the story while O'Connor listened, alert to catch every
point of the narrative.
The face of the lieutenant of rangers was a boyish one--eager, genial, and
frank; yet, none the less, strength lay in the close-gripped jaw and in
the steady, watchful eye. His lithe, tense body was like a coiled spring;
and that, too, though he seemed to be very much at ease.