Arizona Round-Up — page 50: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

48 WILLIAM HOPSON was thinking that if a man ever broke through her hard shell he'd find a lot of warm, passionate woman underneath. “So you won't accept the invitation?” she asked, low-voiced. “I'm flattered beyond words, Miss Owens. But I'd prefer to eat here.” “You don’t like me, do you, Tex?” she asked him. She was watching the slim fingers. Something about them—everything about this quiet, cultured man who could kill with lightning deadliness aroused the fire in her. She had, of course, heard about the shooting a few minutes before. The news had spread like wildfire up and down the street. “I don't dislike you,” he replied. “I hardly feel that I've com- mitted myself on that point—certainly not after accepting your hospitality earlier in the evening.” “It wasn't hospitality at all,” she told him. “It was business, Tex. P'm an amazingly frank woman. I'll be frank with you now. I like you, Tex. I like you a lot. You could do worse than to dislike me. You might find me far more interesting than you imagine.” “Not when you're in a profession I consider solely a man’s profession, Miss Owens.” “So you like your woman feminine? The clinging type with water in their veins instead of red blood. I’m not that kind. I feel that if a woman wants something she should go after it— whether it’s money, power, or the right man. I made you an offer tonight, which you refused. I'd like to make it again.“ “I'll play it alone, I reckon,” he said quietly. She half rose, the dangerous glint coming into her clear eyes. She didn't realize that in that moment of anger she was more beautiful—ravishing, the Deacon would have called it—than ever before and that it was disturbing him. Her next words dissipated the impression. “In the Gulch people play the game my way or they don't play it, Tex,” she told him in a level voice. “I waut you here because I like you—I like you very, very much—and because I ‘need you. But if your decision is final there’s no room for you in Mule Gulch. You'll have to go. The man who didn’t shoot to- night—his name is Gardner—is leaving on the eight o’clock stage driven by my father. Eight o'clock is the deadline for you too.” “I once knew a tinhorn named Hole-Card Pete who was the comicbooks.com