It was an old, old melody she sang,--the song of "Annie Laurie." Tom Osby played it over again.

He sat and listened, as he had, night after night, in the moonlight on the long trail from Las Vegas down.
The face of a strong and self-repressed man is difficult to read.

It does not change lightly under any passing emotion.

Tom Osby's face perhaps looked even harder than usual, as he sat there listening, his unlit pipe clenched hard between his hands.

Truant to his trusts, forgetful of the box of candy which regularly he brought down from Vegas to the Littlest Girl, Curly's wife; forgetful of many messages, commercial and social,--forgetful even of us, his sworn cronies,--Tom Osby sat and listened to a voice which sang of a Face that was the Fairest, and of a Dark blue Eye.
[Illustration: "A voice which sang of a Face that was the Fairest, and of a Dark blue Eye."] The voice sang and sang again, until finally four conspirators once more approached Tom Osby's cabin.