He asked for Woodhull, and learning his whereabouts trotted across the intervening glade.
"That's shore a hoss he rides," said one man.
"An' a shore man a-ridin' of him," nodded another.

"He may ride front o' the train an' not back o' hit, even yet." Molly Wingate sat on the grass in the little grove, curling a chain of dandelion stems.

Near by Sam Woodhull, in his best, lay on the sward regarding her avidly, a dull fire in his dark eyes.

He was so enamored of the girl as to be almost unfit for aught else.

For weeks he had kept close to her.