But being Jim Galloway, he laid a gentle but none the less
restraining hand upon her arm.
"Please," he said quietly. "I want to talk with you. May I?"
Florrie's arm burned where he had touched her. She was all in a
flutter, half frightened and the other half flattered. A shade more
leisurely they walked on toward the cottonwoods. Here, in the shadows,
Galloway stopped and Florrie, although beginning to tremble, stopped
with him.
"Men have given me a black name here," he was saying as he faced her.
"They've made me somewhat worse than I am. I feel that I have few
friends, certainly very few of my own class. I like to think of you as
a friend. May I?"
It was distinctly pleasant to have a big man like Galloway, a man whom
for good or for bad the whole State knew, pleading with her. It gave a
new sort of assurance to her theory that she was "grown up"; it added
to her importance in her own eyes.
"Why, yes," said Florrie.
"I am going away," he continued gravely. "For just how long I don't
know. A week, perhaps a month, maybe longer. It is a business matter
of considerable importance, Florence. Nor is it entirely without
danger. It will take me down below the border, and an American in
Mexico right now takes his life entirely into his own hands.
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