once the light flared and burned upon his hair. It was a wonderful red;
it shone, and it had a terrible blood tinge so that his face seemed pale
beneath it. There were three things that made up the peculiar dominance
of Donnegan's countenance. The three things were the hair, the uneasy,
bright eyes, and the rather thin, compressed lips. When Donnegan slept
he seemed about to waken from a vigorous dream; when he sat down he
seemed about to leap to his feet; and when he was standing he gave that
impression of a poise which is ready for anything. It was no wonder that
the girl, seeing that face and that alert, aggressive body, shrank a
little on the stairs. Donnegan, that instant, knew that these two women
were really alone in the house as far as fighting men were concerned.

And the fact disturbed him more than a leveled gun would have done. He
went to the foot of the stairs, even past the old woman, and, raising
his head, he spoke to the girl.

"My name's Donnegan. I came over from the railroad--walked. I don't want
to walk that other eight miles unless there's a real need for it. I--"
Why did he pause? "I'll pay for anything I get here."

His voice was not too certain; behind his teeth there was knocking a
desire to cry out to her the truth. "I am Donnegan. Donnegan the tramp.
Donnegan the shiftless. Donnegan the fighter. Donnegan the killer.
Donnegan the penniless, worthless. But for heaven's sake let me stay
until morning and let me look at you--from a distance!"

But, after all, perhaps he did not need to say all these things. His
clothes were rags, upon his face there was a stubble of unshaven red,
which made the pallor about his eyes more pronounced. If the girl had
been half blind she must have felt that here was a man of fire. He saw