quired of his own adventures after they parted, and he told her all that had overtaken him from that time forward. Fannie sat silent a long time when he had ffinshed, as if there was something in his story that threw her into deep thought. After a while:
"Texas?"
"Yes, Fannie."
"That girl they fired, the one I helped Mackey and Stott and that gang hand out the crooked deal to—you think a good deal of her, don't you, Texas?"
"I hold her in the highest of respect—I have a very warm, friendly feelin' for her, Fannie."
"Of course you have, Texas, and more than that," she said, as if she had thought it out to an indisputable conclusion. "That's all right—you've got a right to—she's a nice kid, you can see it in her eyes."
"She's not exactly a kid, Fannie; she's a woman as old as you."
"Yes, but she's a kid in experience. Well, I wish to God I was, too! If I was, maybe—"
She let it stop there, and sat with her chin in her hands, her hat on the ground. He could see the white strip of adhesive plaster on her head, and his compassion for her was as deep as the sea.
"How do you know I'm square with you, Texas
