The Project Gutenberg EBook of The LongShadow, by B. M. Bower

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Title: The Long Shadow

Author: B. M. Bower

Release Date: April 29, 2004 [EBook#12192]

Language: English

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Produced by Suzanne Shell, AliciaWilliams, David King, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team

THE LONGSHADOW

BY B.M. BOWER

(B.M. SINCLAIR)

ILLUSTRATIONS BYCLARENCE ROWE

COPYRIGHT, 1908

TO THOSEWHO HAVE WATCHED THE

SHADOW FALLUPON THE RANGE.

CONTENTSI Charming Billy Has a Visitor

II Prune Pie and Coon-can

III Charming Billy Has a Fight

IV Canned

V The Man From Michigan

VI "That's My Dill Pickle!"

VII "Till Hell's a Skating-rink"

VIII Just a Day-dream

IX The "Double-Crank"

X The Day We Celebrate

XI "When I Lift My Eyebrows This Way"

XII Dilly Hires a Cook

XIII Billy Meets the Pilgrim

XIV A Winter at the Double-Crank

XV The Shadow Falls Lightly

XVI Self-Defense

XVII The Shadow Darkens

XVIII When the North Wind Blows

XIX "I'm Not Your Wife Yet!"

XX The Shadow Lies Long

XXI The End of the Double-Crank

XXII Settled In Full

XXIII "Oh, Where Have You Been,Charming Billy?"

LIST OFILLUSTRATIONS

"I'll leave you this, you'll feel safer if youhave a gun"

"Hands off that long person! That there'smy dill pickle"

"We—we're 'up against it,' as fellowssay"

For every sentence a stinging blow withthe flat of his hand

CHAPTER I.

Charming Billy Has a Visitor.

The wind, rising again as the sun wentdown, mourned lonesomely at thenorthwest corner of the cabin, as if it feltthe desolateness of the barren, icy hillsand the black hollows between, and of theangry red sky with its purple shadowslowering over the unhappy land—andwould make fickle friendship with somehuman thing. Charming Billy, hearing thecrooning wail of it, knew well the portentand sighed. Perhaps he, too, felt somethingof the desolateness without and perhaps

he, too, longed for some humancompanionship.

He sent a glance of half-consciousdisapproval around the untidy cabin. Hehad been dreaming aimlessly of a place hehad seen not so long ago; a place wherethe stove was black and shining, with afire crackling cheeringly inside and ateakettle with straight, unmarred spout anddependable handle singing placidly toitself and puffing steam with an air of lazycomfort, as if it were smoking a cigarette.The stove had stood in the southwestcorner of the room, and the room waswarm with the heat of it; and the floor waswhite and had a strip of rag carpetreaching from the table to a corner of thestove. There was a red cloth with knotted

fringe on the table, and a bed in anothercorner had a red-and-white patchworkspread and puffy white pillows. There hadbeen a woman—but Charming Billy shuthis eyes, mentally, to the woman, becausehe was not accustomed to them and he wasnot at all sure that he wanted to beaccustomed; they did not fit in with the lifehe lived. He felt dimly that, in a way, theywere like the heaven his mother had taughthim—altogether perfect and altogetherunattainable and not to be thought of withany degree of familiarity. So his memoryof the woman was indistinct, as ofsomething which did not properly belongto the picture. He clung instead to thememory of the warm stove, and the stripof carpet, and the table with the red cloth,and to the puffy, white pillows on the bed.

The wind mourned again insistently at thecorner. Billy lifted his head and lookedonce more around the cabin. The realitywas depressing—doubly depressing incontrast to the memory of that other room.A stove stood in the southwest corner, butit was not black and shining; it was rust-red and ash-littered, and the ashes hadoverflowed the hearth and spilled to theunswept floor. A dented lard-pail withouta handle did meagre duty as a teakettle,and balanced upon a corner of the stovewas a dirty frying pan. The fire had gonedead and the room was chill with therising of the wind. The table was filledwith empty cans and tin plates andcracked, oven-stained bowls and iron-handled knives and forks, and the bunk inthe corner was a tumble of gray blankets

and unpleasant, red-flowered comforts—corner-wads, Charming Billy was used tocalling them—and for pillows there weretwo square, calico-covered cushions,depressingly ugly in pattern and not over-clean.

Billy sighed again, threaded a needle withcoarse, black thread and attackedpetulantly a long rent in his coat. "Darnthis bushwhacking all over God's earthafter a horse a man can't stay with, noreven hold by the bridle reins," hecomplained dispiritedly. "I could uhcleaned the blamed shack up so it wouldlook like folks was living here—and Iwoulda, if I didn't have to set all day andtoggle up the places in my clothes"—Billymuttered incoherently over a knot in his

thread. "I've been plumb puzzled, allwinter, to know whether it's man or cattleI'm supposed to chappyrone. If it's man,this coat has sure got the marks uh thetrade, all right." He drew the needlespitefully through the cloth.

The wind gathered breath and swoopeddown upon the cabin so that Billy felt thejar of it. "I don't see what's got the matterof the weather," he grumbled. "Yuh justget a chinook that starts water runningdown the coulées, and then the windswitches and she freezes up solid—andthat means tailing-up poor cows andcalves by the dozen—and for your side-partner yuh get dealt out to yuh a pilgrimthat don't know nothing and can't ride awagon seat, hardly, and that's bound to

keep a dawg! And the Old Man stands forthat kind uh thing and has forbid accidentshappening to it—oh, hell!"

This last was inspired by a wrigglingmovement under the bunk. A black dog, ofthe apologetic drooping sort that alwayshas its tail sagging and matted with burrs,crawled out and sidled past Billy with adeprecating wag or two when he caughthis unfriendly glance, and shambled overto the door that he might sniff suspiciouslythe cold air coming in through the crackbeneath.

Billy eyed him malevolently. "A dog in aline-camp is a plumb disgrace! I don't seewhy the Old Man stands for it—or thePilgrim, either; it's a toss-up which is the

worst. Yuh smell him coming, do yuh?" hesnarled. "It's about time he was coming—me here eating dried apricots and tapiocasteady diet (nobody but a pilgrim wouldfetch tapioca into a line-camp, and if hedoes it again you'll sure be missing theonly friend yuh got) and him gone fourdays when he'd oughta been back thesecond. Get out and welcome him, darnyuh!" He gathered the coat under one armthat he might open the door, and hurriedthe dog outside with a threatening boottoe. The wind whipped his brown cheeksso that he closed the door hastily andretired to the cheerless shelter of thecabin.

"Another blizzard coming, if I know thesigns. And if the Pilgrim don't show up to-

night with the grub and tobacco—But Ireckon the dawg smelt him coming, allright." He fingered uncertainly a veryflabby tobacco sack, grew suddenlyreckless and made himself an exceedinglythin cigarette with the remaining crumbs oftobacco and what little he could gleanfrom the pockets of the coat he wasmending. Surely, the Pilgrim wouldremember his tobacco! Incapable as hewas, he could scarcely forget that, afterthe extreme emphasis Charming Billy hadlaid upon the getting, and the penaltiesattached to its oversight.

Outside, the dog was barkingspasmodically; but Billy, being a productof the cattle industry pure and simple,knew not the way of dogs. He took it for

granted that the Pilgrim was arriving withthe grub, though he was too disgusted withhis delay to go out and make sure. Dogsalways barked at everything impartially—when they were not gnawingsurreptitiously at bones or snooping incorners for scraps, or planting themselvesdeliberately upon your clothes. Even whenthe noise subsided to throaty growls hefailed to recognize the symptoms; he wastaking long, rapturous mouthfuls of smokeand gazing dreamily at his coat, for it washis first cigarette since yesterday.

When some one rapped lightly he jumped,although he was not a man who ownedunsteady nerves. It was very unusual, thatlight tapping. When any one wanted tocome in he always opened the door

without further ceremony. Still, there wasno telling what strange freak might impelthe Pilgrim—he who insisted on keeping adog in a line-camp!—so Billy recoveredhimself and called out impatiently: "Aw,come on in! Don't be a plumb fool," andnever moved from his place.

The door opened queerly; slowly, andwith a timidity not at all in keeping withthe blundering assertiveness of thePilgrim. When a young woman showed fora moment against the bleak twilight andthen stepped inside, Charming Billycaught at the table for support, and thecoat he was holding dropped to the floor.He did not say a word: he just stared.

The girl closed the door behind her with

something of defiance, that did not in theleast impose upon one. "Good evening,"she said briskly, though even in hischaotic state of mind Billy felt the tremblein her voice. "It's rather late for makingcalls, but—" She stopped and caught herbreath nervously, as if she found itimpossible to go on being brisk and atease. "I was riding, and my horse slippedand hurt himself so he couldn't walk, and Isaw this cabin from up on the hill overthere. So I came here, because it was sofar home—and I thought—maybe—" Shelooked with big, appealing brown eyes atBilly, who felt himself a brute without inthe least knowing why. "I'm Flora Bridger;you know, my father has taken up a ranchover on Shell Creek, and—"

"I'm very glad to meet you," saidCharming Billy stammeringly. "Won't yousit down? I—I wish I'd known companywas coming." He smiled reassuringly, andthen glanced frowningly around the cabin.Even for a line-camp, he told himselfdisgustedly, it was "pretty sousy." "Youmust be cold," he added, seeing her glancetoward the stove. "I'll have a fire goingright away; I've been pretty busy and justlet things slide." He threw the un-smokedhalf of his cigarette into the ashes and feltnot a quiver of regret. He knew who shewas, now; she was the daughter he hadheard about, and who belonged to theplace where the stove was black andshining and the table had a red cloth withknotted fringe. It must have been hermother whom he had seen there—but she

had looked very young to be mother of ayoung lady.

Charming Billy brought himself rigidly toconsider the duties of a host; swept hisarm across a bench to clear it of sundryman garments, and asked her again to sitdown. When she did so, he saw that herfingers were clasped tightly to hold herfrom shivering, and he raved inwardly athis shiftlessness the while he hurried tolight a fire in the stove.

"Too bad your horse fell," he remarkedstupidly, gathering up the handful ofshavings he had whittled from a piece ofpine board. "I always hate to see a horseget hurt." It was not what he had wanted tosay, but he could not seem to put just the

right thing into words. What he wantedwas to make her feel that there wasnothing out of the ordinary in her beingthere, and that he was helpful andsympathetic without being in the leastsurprised. In all his life on the range hehad never had a young woman walk into aline-camp at dusk—a strange youngwoman who tried pitifully to be at easeand whose eyes gave the lie to her manner—and he groped confusedly for just theright way in which to meet the situation.

"I know your father," he said, fanning atiny blaze among the shavings with his hat,which had been on his head until heremembered and removed it in deferenceto her presence. "But I ain't a very goodneighbor, I guess; I never seem to have

time to be sociable. It's lucky your horsefell close enough so yuh could walk in tocamp; I've had that happen to me morethan once, and it ain't never pleasant—butit's worse when there ain't any camp towalk to. I've had that happen, too."

The fire was snapping by then, andmanlike he swept the ashes to the floor.The girl watched him, politelydisapproving. "I don't want to be atrouble," she said, with less of constraint;for Charming Billy, whether he knew it ornot, had reassured her immensely. "I knowmen hate to cook, so when I get warm, andthe water is hot, I'll cook supper for you,"she offered. "And then I won't mind havingyou help me to get home."

"I guess it won't be any trouble—but Idon't mind cooking. You—you better setstill and rest," murmured Charming Billy,quite red. Of course, she would wantsupper—and there were dried apricots,and a very little tapioca! He felt viciouslythat he could kill the Pilgrim and be glad.The Pilgrim was already two days latewith the supplies he had been sent afterbecause he was not to be trusted with theduties pertaining to a line-camp—andBilly had not the wide charity that couldconjure excuses for the delinquent.

"I'll let you wash the dishes," promisedMiss Bridger generously. "But I'll cookthe supper—really, I want to, you know. Iwon't say I'm not hungry, because I am.This Western air does give one such an

appetite, doesn't it? And then I walkedmiles, it seems to me; so that ought to bean excuse, oughtn't it? Now, if you'll showme where the coffee is—"

She had risen and was looking at himexpectantly, with a half smile that seemedto invite one to comradeship. CharmingBilly looked at her helplessly, and turneda shade less brown.

"The—there isn't any," he stammeredguiltily. "The Pilgrim—I mean Walland—Fred Walland—"

"It doesn't matter in the least," MissBridger assured him hastily. "One can'tkeep everything in the house all the time,so far from any town. We're often out of

things, at home. Last week, only, I upsetthe vanilla bottle, and then we werecompletely out of vanilla till justyesterday." She smiled again confidingly,and Billy tried to seem very sympathetic—though of a truth, to be out of vanilla didnot at that moment seem to him a seriouscatastrophe. "And really, I like tea better,you know. I only said coffee becausefather told me cowboys drink it a greatdeal. Tea is so much quicker and easier tomake."

Billy dug his nails into his palms. "There—Miss Bridger," he blurted desperately,"I've got to tell yuh—there isn't a thing inthe shack except some dried apricots—and maybe a spoonful or two of tapioca.The Pilgrim—" He stopped to search his

brain for words applicable to the Pilgrimand still mild enough for the ears of alady.

"Well, never mind. We can rough it—itwill be lots of fun!" the girl laughed soreadily as almost to deceive Billy,standing there in his misery. That a womanshould come to him for help, and he noteven able to give her food, was almostunbearable. It were well for the Pilgrimthat Charming Billy Boyle could not at thatmoment lay hands upon him.

"It will be fun," she laughed again in hisface. "If the—the grubstake is down to awhisper (that's the way you say it, isn't it?)there will be all the more credit coming tothe cook when you see all the things she

can do with dried apricots and tapioca.May I rummage?"

"Sure," assented Billy, dazedly movingaside so that she might reach the cornerwhere three boxes were nailed by theirbottoms to the wall, curtained with gaylyflowered calico and used for a cupboard."The Pilgrim," he began for the third timeto explain, "went after grub and is takinghis time about getting back. He'd oughtabeen here day before yesterday. We mighteat his dawg," he suggested, gatheringspirit now that her back was toward him.

Her face appeared at one side of thecalico curtain. "I know something betterthan eating the dog," she announcedtriumphantly. "Down there in the willows

where I crossed the creek—I came downthat low, saggy place in the hill—I saw alot of chickens or something—partridges,maybe you call them—roosting in a treewith their feathers all puffed out. It'snearly dark, but they're worth trying for,don't you think? That is, if you have agun," she added, as if she had begun torealize how meagre were his possessions."If you don't happen to have one, we cando all right with what there is here, youknow."

Billy flushed a little, and for answer tookdown his gun and belt from where theyhung upon the wall, buckled the beltaround his slim middle and picked up hishat. "If they're there yet, I'll get some,sure," he promised. "You just keep the fire

going till I come back, and I'll wash thedishes. Here, I'll shut the dawg in thehouse; he's always plumb crazy withambition to do just what yuh don't wanthim to do, and I don't want himfollowing." He smiled upon her again (hewas finding that rather easy to do) andclosed the door lingeringly behind him.Having never tried to analyze his feelings,he did not wonder why he stepped sosoftly along the frozen path that led to thestable, or why he felt that glow of elationwhich comes to a man only when he hasfound something precious in his sight.

"I wish I hadn't eat the last uh the flour thismorning," he regretted anxiously. "Icoulda made some bread; there's a littleyeast powder left in the can. Darn the

Pilgrim!"

CHAPTER II.

Prune Pie and Coon-can.

Of a truth, Charming Billy Boyle, livinghis life in the wide land that is too big andtoo far removed from the man-made worldfor any but the strong of heart, knew littleindeed of women—her kind of women.When he returned with two chickens andfound that the floor had been swept sothoroughly as to look strange to him, andthat all his scattered belongings were laidin a neat pile upon the foot of the bunkwhich was unfamiliar under straightenedblankets and pitifully plumped pillows, he

was filled with astonishment. MissBridger smiled a little and went onwashing the dishes.

"It's beginning to storm, isn't it?" sheremarked. "But we'll eat chicken stewbefore we—before I start home. If youhave a horse that I can borrow tillmorning, father will bring it back."

Billy scattered a handful of feathers on thefloor and gained a little time by stoopingto pick them up one by one. "I've beenwondering about that," he said reluctantly."It's just my luck not to have a gentle hossin camp. I've got two, but they ain't safefor women. The Pilgrim's got one hoss thatmight uh done if it was here, which itain't."

She looked disturbed, though she tried tohide it. "I can ride pretty well," sheventured.

Without glancing at her, Charming Billyshook his head. "You're all right here"—he stopped to pick up more feathers—"andit wouldn't be safe for yuh to try it. Onehoss is mean about mounting; yuh couldn'tget within a rod of him. The other one is aholy terror to pitch when anything strangegets near him. I wouldn't let yuh try it."Charming Billy was sorry—that showedin his voice—but he was also firm.

Miss Bridger thoughtfully wiped a tinspoon. Billy gave her a furtive look anddropped his head at the way the brightnesshad gone out of her face. "They'll be

worried, at home," she said quietly.

"A little worry beats a funeral," Billyretorted sententiously, instinctivelymastering the situation because she was awoman and he must take care of her. "Ireckon I could—" He stopped abruptlyand plucked savagely at a stubborn wingfeather.

"Of course! You could ride over and bringback a horse!" She caught eagerly at hishalf-spoken offer. "It's a lot of bother foryou, but I—I'll be very much obliged."Her face was bright again.

"You'd be alone here—"

"I'm not the least bit afraid to stay alone. I

wouldn't mind that at all."

Billy hesitated, met a look in her eyes thathe did not like to see there, and yielded.Obviously, from her viewpoint that wasthe only thing to do. A cowpuncher whohas ridden the range since he was sixteenshould not shirk a night ride in a blizzard,or fear losing the trail. It was not stormingso hard a man might not ride ten miles—that is, a man like Charming Billy Boyle.

After that he was in great haste to be gone,and would scarcely wait until MissBridger, proudly occupying the position ofcook, told him that the chicken stew wasready. Indeed, he would have gonewithout eating it if she had not protested ina way that made Billy foolishly glad to

submit; as it was, he saddled his horsewhile he waited, and reached for hissheepskin-lined, "sour-dough" coat beforethe last mouthful was fairly swallowed. Atthe last minute he unbuckled his gun beltand held it out to her.

"I'll leave you this," he remarked, with anawkward attempt to appear careless."You'll feel safer if you have a gun, and—and if you're scared at anything, shoot it."He finished with another smile that lightedwonderfully his face and his eyes.

She shook her head. "I've often stayedalone. There's nothing in the world to beafraid of—and anyway, I'll have the dog.Thank you, all the same."

Charming Billy looked at her, opened hismouth and closed it without speaking. Helaid the gun down on the table and turnedto go. "If anything scares yuh," he repeatedstubbornly, "shoot it. Yuh don't want tocount too much on that dawg."

He discovered then that Flora Bridgerwas an exceedingly willful young woman.She picked up the gun, overtook him, andfairly forced it into his hands. "Don't besilly; I don't want it. I'm not such a cowardas all that. You must have a very pooropinion of women. I—I'm deadly afraid ofa gun!"

Billy was not particularly impressed bythe last statement, but he felt himself at theend of his resources and buckled the belt

around him without more argument. Afterall, he told himself, it was not likely thatshe would have cause for alarm in the fewhours that he would be gone, and thosehours he meant to trim down as much aspossible.

Out of the coulée where the high wallbroke the force of the storm, he faced thesnow and wind and pushed on doggedly. Itwas bitter riding, that night, but he hadseen worse and the discomfort of ittroubled him little; it was not the first timehe had bent head to snow and drivingwind and had kept on so for hours. Whatharassed him most were the icy hillswhere the chinook had melted the snow,and the north wind, sweeping over, hadfrozen it all solid again. He could not ride

as fast as he had counted upon riding, andhe realized that it would be long hoursbefore he could get back to the cabin witha horse from Bridger's.

Billy could not tell when first came theimpulse to turn back. It might have beenwhile he was working his way cautiouslyup a slippery coulée side, or it might havecome suddenly just when he stopped; forstop he did (just when he should logicallyhave ridden faster because the way wassmoother) and turned his horse's headdownhill.

"If she'd kept the gun—" he muttered,apologizing to himself for the impulse, andflayed his horse with his romal becausehe did not quite understand himself and so

was ill at ease. Afterward, when he wasloping steadily down the coulée bottomwith his fresh-made tracks pointing theway before him, he broke out irrelevantlyand viciously: "A real, old range rider yuhcan bank on, one way or the other—butdamn a pilgrim!"

The wind and the snow troubled him notso much now that his face was not turnedto meet them, but it seemed to him that theway was rougher and that the icy spotswere more dangerous to the bones ofhimself and his horse than when he hadcome that way before. He did not knowwhy he need rage at the pace he must attimes keep, and it did strike him as being afoolish thing to do—this turning backwhen he was almost halfway to his

destination; but for every time he thoughtthat, he urged his horse more.

The light from the cabin window,twinkling through the storm, cheered him alittle, which was quite as unreasonable ashis uneasiness. It did not, however, causehim to linger at turning his horse into thestable and shutting the door upon him.When he passed the cabin window heglanced anxiously in and saw dimlythrough the half-frosted glass that MissBridger was sitting against the wall by thetable, tight-lipped and watchful. Hehurried to the door and pushed it open.

"Why, hello," greeted the Pilgrimuncertainly, The Pilgrim was standing inthe centre of the room, and he did not look

particularly pleased. Charming Billy,every nerve on edge, took in the situationat a glance, kicked the Pilgrim's dog andshook the snow from his hat.

"I lost the trail," he lied briefly and wentover to the stove. He did not look at MissBridger directly, but he heard the deepbreath which she took.

"Well, so did I," the Pilgrim beganeagerly, with just the least slurring of hissyllables. "I'd have been here before dark,only one of the horses slipped and lamedhimself. It was much as ever I got home atall. He come in on three legs, and towardthe last them three like to went back onhim."

"Which hoss?" asked Billy, though he feltpessimistically that he knew without beingtold. The Pilgrim's answer confirmed hispessimism. Of course, it was the onlygentle horse they had.

"Say, Billy, I forgot your tobacco,"drawled the Pilgrim, after a very shortsilence which Billy used for much rapidthinking.

Ordinarily, Billy would have consideredthe over sight as something of acatastrophe, but he passed it up as anunpleasant detail and turned to the girl."It's storming something fierce," he toldher in an exceedingly matter-of-fact way,"but I think it'll let up by daylight so wecan tackle it. Right now it's out of the

question; so we'll have another supper—aregular blowout this time, with coffee andbiscuits and all those luxuries. How areyuh on making biscuits?"

So he got her out of the corner, where shehad looked too much at bay to please him,and in making the biscuits she lost thewatchful look from her eyes. But she wasnot the Flora Bridger who had laughed attheir makeshifts and helped cook thechicken, and Charming Billy, ravinginwardly at the change, in his heartdamned fervently the Pilgrim.

In the hours that followed, Billy showedthe stuff he was made of. He insisted uponcooking the things that would take thelongest time to prepare; boasted volubly

of the prune pies he could make, and thenset about demonstrating his skill and didnot hurry the prunes in the stewing. Hefished out a package of dried lima beansand cooked some of them, changing thewater three times and always adding coldwater. For all that, supper was eventuallyready and eaten and the dishes washed—with Miss Bridger wiping them and withthe Pilgrim eying them both in a way thatset on edge the teeth of Charming Billy.

When there was absolutely nothing moreto keep them busy, Billy got the cards andasked Miss Bridger if she could playcoon-can—which was the only game heknew that was rigidly "two-handed." Shedid not know the game and he insistedupon teaching her, though the Pilgrim

glowered and hinted strongly at seven-upor something else which they could allplay.

"I don't care for seven-up," Miss Bridgerquelled, speaking to him for the first timesince Billy returned. "I want to learn thisgame that—er—Billy knows." There wasa slight hesitation on the name, which wasthe only one she knew to call him by.

The Pilgrim grunted and retired to thestove, rattled the lids ill-naturedly andsmoked a vile cigar which he had broughtfrom town. After that he sat and gloweredat the two.

Billy did the best he could to make thetime pass quickly. He had managed to seat

Miss Bridger so that her back was towardthe stove and the Pilgrim, and he did it sounobtrusively that neither guessed hisreason. He taught her coon-can, two-handed whist and Chinese solitaire beforea gray lightening outside proclaimed thatthe night was over. Miss Bridger, heavy-eyed and languid, turned her face to thewindow; Billy swept the cards togetherand stacked them with an air of finality.

"I guess we can hit the trail now withoutlosing ourselves," he remarked briskly."Pilgrim, come on out and help me saddleup; we'll see if that old skate of yours isable to travel."

The Pilgrim got up sullenly and went out,and Billy followed him silently. His own

horse had stood with the saddle on allnight, and the Pilgrim snorted when hesaw it. But Billy only waited till thePilgrim had put his saddle on the gentlestmount they had, then took the reins fromhim and led both horses to the door.

"All right," he called to the girl; helpedher into the saddle and started off, withnot a word of farewell from Miss Bridgerto the Pilgrim.

The storm had passed and the air was stilland biting cold. The eastern sky wasstained red and purple with the rising sun,and beneath the feet of their horses thesnow creaked frostily. So they rode downthe coulée and then up a long slope to thetop, struck the trail and headed straight

north with a low line of hills for theirgoal. And in the hour and a half of riding,neither spoke a dozen words.

At the door of her own home Billy lefther, and gathered up the reins of thePilgrim's horse. "Well, good-by. Oh, that'sall right—it wasn't any trouble at all," hesaid huskily when she tried to thank him,and galloped away.

CHAPTER III.

Charming Billy Has a Fight.

If Billy Boyle had any ideals he did notrecognize them as such, and he would nothave known just how to answer you if youhad asked him what was his philosophy oflife. He was range-bred—as purelyWestern as were the cattle he tended—buthe was not altogether ignorant of the waysof the world, past or present. He had thatsmattering of education which countryschools and those of "the county seat" maygive a boy who loves a horse better thanbooks, and who, sitting hunched behind

his geography, dreams of riding afar, ofshooting wild things and of sleeping underthe stars.

From the time he was sixteen he had livedchiefly in tents and line-camp cabins, hisworld the land of far horizons, of big sins,and virtues bigger. One creed he owned:to live "square," fight square, and to beloyal to his friends and his "outfit." Littlethings did not count much with him, andfor that reason he was the more enragedagainst the Pilgrim, because he did notquite know what it was all about. So faras he had heard or seen, the Pilgrim hadoffered no insult to Miss Bridger—"thegirl," as he called her simply in his mind.Still, he had felt all along that the merepresence of the Pilgrim was an offense to

her, no less real because it was intangibleand not to be put into words; and for thatoffense the Pilgrim must pay.

But for the presence of the Pilgrim, he toldhimself ill-temperedly, they might havewaited for breakfast; but he had been soanxious to get her away from under theman's leering gaze that he had not thoughtof eating. And if the Pilgrim had been aman, he might have sent him over toBridger's for her father and a horse. Butthe Pilgrim would have lost himself, orhave refused to go, and the latterpossibility would have caused a sceneunfit for the eyes of a young woman.

So he rode slowly and thought of manythings he might have done which would

have been better than what he did do; andwondered what the girl thought about itand if she blamed him for not doingsomething different. And for every mile ofthe way he cursed the Pilgrim anew.

In that unfriendly mood he opened thedoor of the cabin, stood a minute justinside, then closed it after him with aslam. The cabin, in contrast with the brightlight of sun shining on new-fallen snow,was dark and so utterly cheerless and chillthat he shrugged shoulders impatiently atits atmosphere, which was as intangiblyoffensive as had been the conduct of thePilgrim.

The Pilgrim was sprawled upon the bunkwith his face in his arms, snoring in a

peculiarly rasping way that Billy, heavy-eyed as he was, resented mostunreasonably. Also, the untidy tableshowed that the Pilgrim had eatenunstintedly—and Billy was exceedinglyhungry. He went over and lifted a snowyboot to the ribs of the sleeper andcommanded him bluntly to "Come alive."

"What-yuh-want?" mumbled the Pilgrimthickly, making one word of the three andlifting his red-rimmed eyes to the other.He raised to an elbow with a lazydoubling of his body and stared dully for aspace before he grinned unpleasantly."Took 'er home all right, did yuh?" heleered, as if they two were in possessionof a huge joke of the kind which may notbe told in mixed company.

If Charming Billy Boyle had neededanything more to stir him to the fightingpoint, that one sentence admirablysupplied the lack. "Yuh low-down skunk!"he cried, and struck him full upon theinsulting, smiling mouth. "If I was asrotten-minded as you are, I'd go drownmyself in the stalest alkali hole I couldfind. I dunno why I'm dirtying my hands onyuh—yuh ain't fit to be clubbed to deathwith a tent pole!" He was, however, usinghis hands freely and to very good purpose,probably feeling that, since the Pilgrimwas much bigger than he, there was needof getting a good start.

But the Pilgrim was not the sort to lie onhis bunk and take a thrashing. He came upafter the second blow, pushing Billy back

with the very weight of his body, and theywere fighting all over the little cabin,surging against the walls and the table andknocking the coffee-pot off the stove asthey lurched this way and that. Not muchwas said after the first outburst of Billy's,save a panting curse now and thenbetween blows, a threat gasped while theywrestled.

It was the dog, sneaking panther-likebehind Billy and setting treacherous teethviciously into his leathern chaps, thatbrought the crisis. Billy tore loose andsnatched his gun from the scabbard at hiship, held the Pilgrim momentarily at baywith one hand while he took a shot at thedog, missed, kicked him back fromanother rush, and turned again on the

Pilgrim.

"Get that dawg outdoors, then," he panted,"or I'll kill him sure." The Pilgrim, foranswer, struck a blow that staggeredBilly, and tried to grab the gun. Billy,hooking a foot around a table-leg, threw itbetween them, swept the blood from hiseyes and turned his gun once more on thedog that was watching treacherously foranother chance.

"That's the time I got him," he grittedthrough the smoke, holding the Pilgrimquiet before him with the gun. "But I'vegot a heap more respect for him than Ihave for you, yuh damn', low-down brute.I'd ought to kill yuh like I would a coyote.Yuh throw your traps together and light

out uh here, before I forget and shoot yuhup. There ain't room in this camp for youand me no more."

The Pilgrim backed, eying Billymalevolently. "I never done nothing," hedefended sullenly. "The boss'll havesomething to say about this—and I'll killyou first chance I get, for shooting mydog."

"It ain't what yuh done, it's what yuhwoulda done if you'd had the chance,"answered Billy, for the first time findingwords for what was surging bitterly in theheart of him. "And I'm willing to take awhirl with yuh any old time; any dawgthat'll lick the boots of a man like you hadought to be shot for not having more sense.

I ain't saying anything about him biting me—which I'd kill him for, anyhow. Now,git! I want my breakfast, and I can't eatwith any relish whilst you're spoiling theair in here for me."

At heart the Pilgrim was a coward as wellas a beast, and he packed his fewbelongings hurriedly and started for thedoor.

"Come back here, and drag your dawgoutside," commanded Billy, and thePilgrim obeyed.

"You'll hear about this later on," hesnarled. "The boss won't stand foranything like this. I never done a thing, andI'm going to tell him so."

"Aw, go on and tell him, yuh—!" snappedBilly. "Only yuh don't want to get absent-minded enough to come back—not whilstI'm here; things unpleasant might happen."He stood in the doorway and watchedwhile the Pilgrim saddled his horse androde away. When not even the pluckety-pluck of his horse's feet came back tooffend the ears of him, Charming Billy putaway his gun and went in and hoisted theoverturned table upon its legs again. Acoarse, earthenware plate, which thePilgrim had used for his breakfast, layunbroken at the feet of him. Billy picked itup, went to the door and cast it violentlyforth, watching with grim satisfaction thepieces when they scattered over the frozenground. "No white man'll ever have to eata fte r him," he muttered. To ease his

outraged feelings still farther, he pickedup the Pilgrim's knife and fork, and sentthem after the plate—and knives and forkswere not numerous in that particular camp,either. After that he felt better and pickedup the coffee-pot, lighted a fire andcooked himself some breakfast, which heate hungrily, his wrath cooling a bit withthe cheer of warm food and strong coffee.

The routine work of the line-camp wasperformed in a hurried, perfunctorymanner that day. Charming Billy, ridingthe high-lines to make sure the cattle hadnot drifted where they should not, wasvaguely ill at ease. He told himself it wasthe want of a smoke that made himuncomfortable, and he planned a hurriedtrip to Hardup, if the weather held good

for another day, when he would lay in asupply of tobacco and papers that wouldlast till roundup. This running out everytwo or three weeks, and living in hell tillyou got more, was plumb wearisome andunnecessary.

On the way back, his trail crossed that of abreed wolfer on his way into the BadLands. Billy immediately asked fortobacco, and the breed somewhatreluctantly opened his pack and exchangedtwo small sacks for a two-bit piece. Billy,rolling a cigarette with eager fingers, feltfor the moment a deep satisfaction withlife. He even felt some compunction aboutkilling the Pilgrim's dog, when he passedthe body stiffening on the snow. "Poordevil! Yuh hadn't ought to expect much

from a dawg—and he was a heap morewhite-acting than what his owner was,"was his tribute to the dead.

It seemed as though, when he closed thecabin door behind him, he somehow shutout his newborn satisfaction. "A shackwith one window is sure unpleasant whenthe sun is shining outside," he saidfretfully to himself. "This joint looks aheap like a cellar. I wonder what the girlthought of it; I reckon it looked prettysousy, to her—and them with everythingshining. Oh, hell!" He took off his chapsand his spurs, rolled another cigarette andsmoked it meditatively. When it hadburned down so that it came nearscorching his lips, he lighted a fire,carried water from the creek, filled the

dishpan and set it on the stove to heat."Darn a dirty shack!" he muttered, halfapologetically, while he was taking theaccumulation of ashes out of the hearth.

For the rest of that day he was exceedinglybusy, and he did not attempt furtherexplanations to himself. He overhauled thebunk and spread the blankets out on thewild rose bushes to sun while he cleanedthe floor. Billy's way of cleaning the floorwas characteristic of the man, andcalculated to be effectual in the mainwithout descending to petty details. Allsuperfluous objects that were smallenough, he merely pushed as far aspossible under the bunk. Boxes andbenches he piled on top; then he broughtbuckets of water and sloshed it upon the

worst places, sweeping and spreading itwith a broom. When the water grew quiteblack, he opened the door, swept itoutside and sloshed fresh water upon thegrimy boards. While he worked, his mindswung slowly back to normal, so that hesang crooningly in an undertone; and thesong was what he had sung for months andyears, until it was a part of him and hadearned him his nickname.

"Oh, where have you been, Billy boy,Billy boy?

Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?I've been to see my wife,She's the joy of my life,

She's a young thing and cannot leave hermother."

Certainly it was neither musical norinspiring, but Billy had somehow adoptedthe ditty and made it his own, so far aseternally singing it could do so, and hiscomrades had found it not unpleasant; forthe voice of Billy was youthful, and had amelodious smoothness that atoned formuch in the way of imbecile words andmonotonous tune.

He had washed all the dishes and hadrepeated the ditty fifteen times, and wasfor the sixteenth time tunefully inquiring:

Can she make a punkin pie, charmingBilly?

when he opened the door to throw out thedishwater, and narrowly escaped landing

it full upon the fur-coated form of hisforeman.

CHAPTER IV.

Canned.

The foreman came in, blinking at thesudden change from bright light to halftwilight, and Charming Billy took theopportunity to kick a sardine can of stove-blacking under the stove where it wouldnot be seen. Some predecessor withdomestic instincts had left behind him halfa package of "Rising Sun," and Billy hadfound it and was intending to blacken thestove just as soon as he finished thedishes. That he had left it as a crowningembellishment, rather than making it the

foundation of his house-cleaning, onlyproved his inexperience in that line. Billyhad "bached" a great deal, but he hadnever blacked a stove in his life.

The foreman passed gloved fingers overhis eyes, held them there a moment, tookthem away and gazed in amazement; sincehe had been foreman of the Double-Crank—and the years were many—CharmingBilly Boyle had been one of its "top-hands," and he had never before caughthim in the throes of "digging out."

"Fundamental furies!" swore he, in theunorthodox way he had. "Looks like thePilgrim was right—there's a lady tookcharge here."

Charming Billy turned red withembarrassment, and then quite pale withrage. "The Pilgrim lied!" he deniedsweepingly.

The foreman picked his way over the wetfloor, in deference to its comparativecleanliness stepping long so that he mightleave as few disfiguring tracks aspossible, and unbuttoned his fur coatbefore the heat of the stove.

"Well, maybe he did," he assentedgenerously, gleaning a box from the pileon the bunk and sitting down, "but it surelooks like corroborative evidence, inhere. How about it, Bill?"

"How about what?" countered Billy, his

teeth close together.

"The girl, and the dawg, and the fight—butmore especially the girl. The Pilgrim—"

"Damn the Pilgrim! I wisht I'd a-killed thelying —— The girl's a lady, and he ain'tfit to speak her name. She come here lastnight because her hoss fell and gotcrippled, and there wasn't a hoss I'd trustat night with her, it was storming so hard,and slippery—and at daylight I put her onthe gentlest one we had, and took herhome. That's all there is to it. There'snothing to gabble about, and if the Pilgrimgoes around shooting off his face—" Billyclicked his teeth ominously.

"Well, that ain't just the way he told it,"

commented the foreman, stooping toexpectorate into the hearth and stopping toregard surprisedly its unwontedemptiness. "He said—"

"I don't give a damn what he said,"snapped Billy. "He lied, the low-downcur."

"Uh-huh—he said something about youshooting that dawg of his. I saw thecarcass out there in the snow." Theforeman spoke with careful neutrality.

"I did. I wisht now I'd laid the two of 'emout together. The dawg tried to feed offamy leg. I shot the blame thing." CharmingBilly sat down upon the edge of the table—sliding the dishpan out of his way—and

folded his arms, and pushed his hat fartherback from his forehead. His whole attitudespoke impenitent scorn.

"I also licked the Pilgrim and hazed himaway from camp and told him particularnot to come back," he informed the otherdefiantly. He did not add, "What are yougoing to do about it?" but his tone carriedunmistakably that sentiment.

"And the Pilgrim happens to be astepbrother uh the widow the Old Man isat present running after, and aiming tomarry. I was sent over here to put the canonto you, Billy. I hate like thunder to do it,but—" The foreman waved a hand tosignify his utter helplessness.

The face of Billy stiffened perceptibly;otherwise he moved not a muscle.

"The Old Man says for you to stay till hecan put another man down here in yourplace, though. He'll send Jim Bleeker soonas he comes back from town—which ain'tapt to be for two or three days unlessthey're short on booze."

Billy caught his breath, hesitated, andreached for his smoking material. It wasnot till he had licked his cigarette intoshape and was feeling in his pocket for amatch that he spoke. "I've drawed wagesfrom the Double-Crank for quite a spell,and I always aimed to act white with theoutfit. It's more than they're doing by me,but—I'll stay till Jim comes." He smoked

moodily, and stared at his boots. "Yuhain't going back tonight, are yuh?"

The foreman said he must, and came backto the subject. "Yuh don't want to think I'mfiring yuh, Billy. If it was my say-so, I'dtell the Pilgrim to go to hell. But he wentstraight to headquarters with his tale uhwoe, and the Old Man is kinda uncertainthese days, on account uh not being rightsure uh the widow. He feels just aboutobliged to keep the Pilgrim smootheddown; he ain't worth his grub, if you askme."

"Oh, I ain't thinking nothing at all about it,"Billy lied proudly. "If the Old Man feelslike canning me, that there's his funeral. Ireckon maybe he likes the Pilgrim's breed

better for a change. And I wouldn't benone surprised if I could get a job withsome other outfit, all right. I ain't aiming tostarve—nor yet ride grub-line."

"When you analyze the thing right down tofundamentals," observed the foreman,whom men called "Jawbreaker" forobvious reasons, "it's a cussed shame.You're one of the oldest men with theoutfit, and the Pilgrim is the youngest—and the most inadequate. The Old Manoughta waited till he heard both sides uhthe case, and I told him so. But he couldn'tforget how the widow might feel if hecanned her stepbrother—and what's aman, more or less, in a case uh that kind?"

"Now look here, Jawbreaker," Billy

protested cheerfully, "don't yuh go oozingcomfort and sympathy on my account. Idon't know but what I'm tickled to death.As yuh say, I've worked for this outfit ablame long while—and it's maybe kindahard on other outfits; they oughta have achance to use me for a spell. There's noreason why the Double-Crank should be ahog and keep a good man forever."

The foreman studied keenly the face ofCharming Billy, saw there an immobilitythat somehow belied his cheerful view ofthe case, and abruptly changed the subject.

"You've got things swept and garnished,all right," he remarked, looking at thenearly clean floor with the tiny pools ofdirty water still standing in the worn

places. "When did the fit take yuh? Did itcome on with fever-n'-chills, like mostother breaking-outs? Or, did the girl—"

"Aw, the darned dawg mussed up thefloor, dying in here," Billy apologizedweakly. "I was plumb obliged to clean upafter him." He glanced somewhatshamefacedly at the floor. After all, it didnot look quite like the one where MissBridger lived; in his heart Billy believedthat was because he had no strip of carpetto spread before the table. He permittedhis glance to take in the bunk, nakedlyshowing the hay it held for a softeninginfluence and piled high with many things—the things that would not go beneath.

"Your soogans are gathering frost to beat

the band, Bill," the foreman informed him,following his glance to the bunk. "Yourinexperience is something appalling, for aman that has fried his own bacon andswabbed out his own frying-pan as manytimes as you have. Better go bring 'em in.It was thinking about snowing again whenI come."

Billy grinned a little and went after hisbedding, brought it and threw it with a finedisregard for order upon the accumulationof boxes and benches in the bunk. "I'll gofeed the hosses, and then I'll cook yuhsome supper," he told the foreman stillhumped comfortably before the stove withhis fur coat thrown open to the heat andhis spurred boots hoisted upon the hearth."Better make up your mind to stay till

morning; it's getting mighty chilly,outside."

The foreman, at the critical stage ofcigarette lighting, grunted unintelligibly.Billy was just laying hand to the door-knob when the foreman looked toward himin the manner of one about to speak. Billystood and waited inquiringly.

"Say, Bill," drawled Jawbreaker, "yuhnever told me her name, yet."

The brows of Charming Billy pinchedinvoluntarily together. "I thought thePilgrim had wised yuh up to all thedetails," he said coldly.

"The Pilgrim didn't know; he says yuh

never introduced him. And seeing it'sserious enough to start yuh on the godlytrail uh cleanliness, I'm naturally taking afriendly interest in her, and—"

"Aw—go to hell!" snapped CharmingBilly, and went out and slammed the doorbehind him so that the cabin shook.

CHAPTER V.

The Man From Michigan.

"How old is she, Billy boy, Billy boy,How old is she, charming Billy?

Twice six, twice seven,Forty-nine and eleven—

She's a young thing, and cannot leave hermother."

"C'm-awn, yuh lazy old skate! Think Iwant to sleep out to-night, when town's soclost?" Charming Billy yanked his pack-pony awake and into a shuffling trot overthe trail, resettled his hat on his head,

sagged his shoulders again and went backto crooning his ditty.

"Can she make a punkin pie, Billy boy,Billy boy,

Can she make a punkin pie, charmingBilly?

She can make a punkin pieQuick's a cat can wink her eye—"

Out ahead, where the trail woundaimlessly around a low sand ridge fleckedwith scrubby sage half buried in graysnowbanks, a horse whinnied inquiringly;Barney, his own red-roan, perked his earstoward the sound and sent shrill answer.In that land and at that season travelerswere never so numerous as to be met withindifference, and Billy felt a slight thrill of

expectation. All day—or as much of it aswas left after his late sleeping and laterbreakfast—he had ridden without meetinga soul; now he unconsciously pressedlightly with his spurs to meet the comer.

Around the first bend they went, and thetrail was blank before them. "Thought itsounded close," Billy muttered, "but withthe wind where it is and the air like this,sound travels farther. I wonder—"

Past the point before them poked a blackhead, followed slowly by a shamblinghorse whose dragging hoofs proclaimedhis weariness and utter lack of ambition.The rider, Billy decided after one sharpglance, he had never seen before in hislife—and nothing lost by it, either, he

finished mentally when he came closer.

If the riders had not willed it so the horseswould mutually have agreed to stop whenthey met; that being the way of rangehorses after carrying speech-hungry menfor a season or two. If men meet out therein the land of far horizons and do not stopfor a word or two, it is generally becausethere is bad feeling between them; andhorses learn quickly the ways of theirmasters.

"Hello," greeted Billy tentatively, eyingthe other measuringly because he was astranger. "Pretty soft going, ain't it?" Hereferred to the half-thawed trail.

"Ye-es," hesitated the other, glancing

diffidently down at the trail and then up atthe neighboring line of disconsolate, lowhills. "Ye-es, it is." His eyes came backand met Billy's deprecatingly, almost likethose of a woman who feels that her youthand her charm have slipped behind herand who does not quite know whether shemay still be worthy your attention. "Areyou acquainted with this—this part of thecountry?"

"Well," Billy had got out his smokingmaterial, from force of the habit withwhich a range-rider seizes everyopportunity for a smoke, and singledmeditatively a leaf. "Well, I kinda know itby sight, all right." And in his voice lurkeda pride of knowledge inexplicable to onewho has not known and loved the range-

land. "I guess you'd have some troublefinding a square foot of it that I ain't beenover," he added, mildly boastful.

If one might judge anything from a face asblank as that of a china doll, both the prideand the boastfulness were quite lost uponthe stranger. Only his eyes were wistfullymelancholy.

"My name is Alexander P. Dill," heinformed Billy quite unnecessarily. "I wasgoing to the Murton place. They told me itwas only ten miles from town and it seemsas though I must have taken the wrongroad, somehow. Could you tell me aboutwhere it would be from here?"

Charming Billy's cupped hands hid his

mouth, but his eyes laughed. "Roads ain'tso plenty around here that you've any callto take one that don't belong to yuh," hereproved, when his cigarette was goingwell. "If Hardup's the place yuh startedfrom, and if they headed yah right whenthey turned yuh loose, you've coveredabout eighteen miles and bent 'em into abeautiful quarter-circle—and how yuhever went and done it undeliberate getsme. You are now seven miles fromHardup and sixteen miles, more or less,from Murton's." He stopped to watch theeffect of his information.

Alexander P. Dill was a long man—anexceedingly long man, as Billy hadalready observed—and now he droopedso that he reminded Billy of shutting up a

telescope. His mouth drooped, also, likethat of a disappointed child, and his eyestook to themselves more melancholy. "Imust have taken the wrong road," herepeated ineffectually.

"Yes," Billy agreed gravely, "I guess yuhmust of; it does kinda look that way."There was no reason why he should feelanything more than a passing amusement atthis wandering length of humanity, butBilly felt an unaccountable stirring of pityand a feeling of indulgent responsibilityfor the man.

"Could you—direct me to the right road?"

"Well, I reckon I could," Billy told himdoubtfully, "but it would be quite a

contract under the circumstances. Anyway,your cayuse is too near played; yuh bettercut out your visit this time and come alongback to town with me. You're liable to doa lot more wandering around till yuh findyourself plumb afoot." He did not knowthat he came near using the tone one takestoward a lost child.

"Perhaps, seeing I've come out of my way,I might as well," Mr. Dill decidedhesitatingly. "That is, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I don't mind at all," Charming Billyassured him airily. "Uh course, I own thistrail, and the less it's tracked up right nowin its present state the better, but you'rewelcome to use it—if you're particular totrod soft and don't step in the middle."

Alexander P. Dill looked at himuncertainly, as if his sense of humor wereweak and not to be trusted off-hand; turnedhis tired horse awkwardly in a way thatbetrayed an unfamiliarity with "neck-reining," and began to retrace his stepsbeside Charming Billy. His stirrups weretoo short, so that his knees were drawn upuncomfortably, and Billy, glancingsidelong down at them, wondered how theman could ride like that.

"You wasn't raised right around here, Ireckon," Billy began amiably, when theywere well under way.

"No—oh, no. I am from Michigan. I onlycame out West two weeks ago. I—I'mthinking some of raising wild cattle for the

Eastern markets." Alexander P. Dill stillhad the wistful look in his eyes, whichwere unenthusiastically blue—just enoughof the blue to make their color definite.

Charming Billy came near laughing, butsome impulse kept him quiet-lipped andmade his voice merely friendly. "Yes—this is a pretty good place for thatbusiness," he observed quite seriously. "Alot uh people are doing that same thing."

Mr. Dill warmed pitifully to thefriendliness. "I was told that Mr. Murtonwanted to sell his far—— ranch andcattle, and I was going to see him about it.I would like to buy a place outright, yousee, with the cattle all branded, and—everything."

Billy suddenly felt the instinct of thechampion. "Well, somebody lied to yuh alot, then," he replied warmly. "Don't yuhnever go near old Murton. In the firstplace, he ain't a cowman—he's asheepman, on a small scale so far as sheepgo but on a sure-enough big scale whenyuh count his feelin's. He runs abouttwelve hundred woollies, and is about asunpolite a cuss as I ever met up with. He'duh roasted yuh brown just for saying cattleat him—and if yuh let out inadvertant thatyuh took him for a cowman, the chances ishe'd a took a shot at yuh. If yuh ask me,you was playin' big luck when yuh wentand lost the trail."

"I can't see what would be their object inmisinforming me on the subject," Mr. Dill

complained. "You don't suppose that theyhad any grudge against Mr. Murton, doyou?"

Charming Billy eyed him aslant and wasmerciful. "I can't say, not knowing whothey was that told yuh," he answered."They're liable to have a grudge agin' him,though; just about everybody has, that everbumped into him."

It would appear that Mr. Dill needed timeto think this over, for he said nothing morefor a long while. Charming Billy halfturned once or twice to importune hispack-pony in language humorouslyquerulous, but beyond that he kept silence,wondering what freakish impulse droveAlexander P. Dill to Montana "to raise

wild cattle for the Eastern markets." Thevery simplicity of his purpose and theunsophistication of his outlook wereirresistible and came near weaningCharming Billy from considering his ownpersonal grievances.

For a grievance it was to be turned adriftfrom the Double-Crank—he, who hadcome to look upon the outfit almost withproprietorship; who for years had said"my outfit" when speaking of it; who hadset the searing iron upon sucking calvesand had watched them grow to yearlings,then to sleek four-year-olds; who had atlast helped prod them up the chutes intothe cars at shipping time and had seenthem take the long trail to Chicago—thetrail from which, for them, there was no

return; who had thrown his rope onkicking, striking "bronks"; had worked,with the sweat streaming like tears downhis cheeks, to "gentle" them; had, withmuch patience, taught them the feel ofsaddle and cinch and had ridden them withmuch stress until they accepted hismastery and became the dependable, wiseold "cow-horses" of the range; who hadfollowed, spring, summer and fall, thewide wandering of the Double-Crankwagons, asking nothing better, secure inthe knowledge that he, Charming BillyBoyle, was conceded to be one of theDouble-Crank's "top-hands." It was bitterto be turned adrift—and for such a cause!Because he had fought a man who wassomething less than a man. It was bitter tofeel that he had been condemned without a

hearing. He had not dreamed that the OldMan would be capable of such an action,even with the latest and least-valuedcomer; he felt the sting of it, the injusticeand the ingratitude for all the years he hadgiven the Double-Crank. It seemed to himthat he could never feel quite the sametoward another outfit, or be content ridinghorses which bore some other brand.

"I suppose you are quite familiar withraising cattle under these Westernconditions," Alexander P. Dill ventured,after a season of mutual meditation.

"Kinda," Billy confirmed briefly.

"There seems to be a certain class-prejudice against strangers, out here. I

can't understand it and I can't seem to getaway from it. I believe those mendeliberately misinformed me, for the solereason that I am unfortunately a strangerand unfamiliar with the country. They donot seem to realize that this country musteventually be more fully developed, andthat, in the very nature of things, strangersare sure to come and take advantage of thenatural resources and aid materially intheir development. I don't consider myselfan interloper; I came here with theintention of making this my future home,and of putting every dollar of capital that Ipossess into this country; I wish I hadmore. I like the country; it isn't as if I camehere to take something away. I came toadd my mite; to help build up, not to teardown. And I can't understand the attitude

of men who would maliciously—"

"It's kinda got to be part uh the scenery tojosh a pilgrim," Billy took the trouble toexplain. "We don't mean any harm. Ireckon you'll get along all right, once yuhget wised up."

"Do you expect to be in town for anylength of time?" Mr. Dill's voice waswistful, as well as his eyes. "Somehow,you don't seem to adopt that semi-hostileattitude, and I—I'm very glad for theopportunity of knowing you."

Charming Billy made a rapid mentalcalculation of his present financialresources and of past experience in therate of depletion.

"Well. I may last a week or so, and I mightpull out to-morrow," he decided candidly."It all depends on the kinda luck I have."

Mr. Dill looked at him inquiringly, but hemade no remark that would betraycuriosity. "I have rented a room in a littlehouse in the quietest part of town. Thehotel isn't very clean and there is too muchnoise and drinking going on at night. Icouldn't sleep there. I should be glad tohave you share my room with me whileyou stay in town, if you will. It is cleanand quiet."

Charming Billy turned his head andlooked at him queerly; at his slopingshoulders, melancholy face and round,wistful eyes, and finally at the awkward,

hunched-up knees of him. Billy did notmind night noises and drinking—to betruthful, they were two of the allurementswhich had brought him townward—andwhether a room were clean or nottroubled him little; he would not see muchof it. His usual procedure while in townwould, he suspected, seem very loose toAlexander P. Dill. It consisted chiefly ofspending the nights where the noiseclamored loudest and of sleeping duringthe day—sometimes—where was the mostconvenient spot to lay the length of him.He smiled whimsically at the contrastbetween them and their habits of living.

"Much obliged," he said. "I expect to besome busy, but maybe I'll drop in and beddown with yuh; once I hit town, it's hard to

tell what I may do."

"I hope you'll feel perfectly free to comeat any time and make yourself at home,"Mr. Dill urged lonesomely.

"Sure. There's the old burg—I do plumbenjoy seeing the sun making gold on a lotuh town windows, like that over there. Itsure looks good, when you've been livingby your high lonesome and not seeing anywindow shine but your own little six-by-eight. Huh?"

"I—I must admit I like better to see thesunset turn my own windows to gold,"observed Mr. Dill softly. "I haven't any,now; I sold the old farm when motherdied. I was born and raised there. The

woods pasture was west of the house, andevery evening when I drove up the cows,and the sun was setting, the kitchenwindows—"

Alexander P. Dill stopped very abruptly,and Billy, stealing a glance at his face,turned his own quickly away and gazedstudiously at a bald hilltop off to the left.So finely tuned was his sympathy that forone fleeting moment he saw a homely,hilly farm in Michigan, with rail fencesand a squat old house with wide porchand hard-beaten path from the kitchendoor to the well and on to the stables; anddown a long slope that was topped withgreat old trees, Alexander P. Dillshambling contentedly, driving with acrooked stick three mild-mannered old

cows. "The blamed chump—what did hego and pull out for?" he asked himselffretfully. Then aloud: "I'm going to have aheart-to-heart talk with the cook at thehotel, and if he don't give us a real oldround-up beefsteak, flopped over on thebare stovelids, there'll be things happenI'd hate to name over. He can sure do thebusiness, all right; he used to cook for theDouble-Crank. And you," he turned,elaborately cheerful, to Mr. Dill, "you aremy guest."

"Thank you," smiled Mr. Dill, recoveringhimself and never guessing how strangewas the last sentence to the lips ofCharming Billy Boyle. "I shall be veryglad to be the guest of somebody—oncemore."

"Yuh poor old devil, yuh sure drifted along ways off your home range," musedBilly. Out loud he only emphasized thearrangement with:

"Sure thing!"

CHAPTER VI.

"That's My Dill Pickle!"

Charming Billy Boyle was, to put itmildly, enjoying his enforced vacationvery much. To tell the plain truth and tellit without the polish of fiction, he washilariously moistened as to his gullet andhe was not thinking of quitting yet; he hadonly just begun.

He was sitting on an end of the bar in theHardtip Saloon, his hat as far back on hishead as it could possibly be pushed withany hope of its staying there at all. He had

a glass in one hand, a cigarette in theother, and he was raking his rowelsrhythmically up and down the erstwhilevarnished bar in buzzing accompaniment,the while he chanted with muchenthusiasm:

"How old is she, Billy boy, Billy boy?How old is she, charming Billy?

Twice six, twice seven,Forty-nine and eleven—"

The bartender, wiping the bar after anunsteady sheepherder, was careful toleave a generous margin around the personof Charming Billy who was at that momentasserting with much emphasis:

"She's a young thing, and cannot leave her

mother."

"Twice-six's-twelve, 'n' twice-seven's-four-r-teen, 'n' twelve 'n' fourteen's—er—twelve—'n'—fourteen—" The unsteadysheepherder was laboring earnestly withthe problem. "She ain't no spring chicken,she ain't!" He laughed tipsily, and winkedup at the singer, but Billy was notobserving him and his mathematicalstruggles. He refreshed himself from theglass, leaving the contents perceptiblylower—it was a large, thick glass with ahandle, and it had flecks of foam down theinside—took a pull at the cigarette andinquired plaintively:

"Can she brew, can she bake, Billy boy,Billy boy?

Can she brew, can she bake, charmingBilly?"

Another long pull at the cigarette, and thenthe triumphant declaration:

"She can brew n' she can bake,She can sew n' she can make—She's a young thing, and cannot leave her

mother."

"She ain't s' young!" bawled thesheepherder, who was taking it all veryseriously. "Say them numbers over again,onc't. Twelve-'n'-fourteen—"

"Aw, go off and lay down!" advisedCharming Billy, in a tone of deep disgust.He was about to pursue still farther his

inquiry into the housewifely qualificationsof the mysterious "young thing," and hehated interruptions.

"Can she make a punkin pie, Billy boy,Billy boy?

Can she make a punkin pie, charmingBilly?"

The door opened timidly and closedagain, but he did not see who entered. Hewas not looking; he was holding theempty, foam-flecked glass behind himimperatively, and he was watching overhis shoulder to see that the bartender didnot skimp the filling and make it two-thirds foam. The bartender waspunctiliously lavish, so that a crest offoam threatened to deluge the hand of

Charming Billy and quite occupied himfor the moment. When he squared himselfagain and buzzed his spurs against the bar,his mind was wholly given to the properexecution of the musical gem.

"She can make a punkin pie,Quick's a cat can wink her eye—"

Something was going on, over in the dimlylighted corner near the door. Half a dozenmen had grouped themselves there withtheir backs to Billy and they were talkingand laughing; but the speech of them wasan unintelligible clamor and their laughtera commingling roar. Billy gravelyinspected his cigarette, which had gonecold, set down the glass and soughtdiligently for a match.

"Aw, come on an' have one on me!"bawled a voice peremptorily. "Yuh can'traise no wild cattle around this joint,lessen yuh wet up good with whisky. Why,a feller as long as you be needs a goodjolt for every foot of yuh—and that's aboutfifteen when you're lengthened out good.Come on—don't be a damn' chubber! Yuhgot to sample m' hospitality. Hey, Tom!set out about a quart uh your mildest forDaffy-down-Dilly. He's dry, clean downto his hand-made socks."

Charming Billy, having found a match,held it unlighted in his fingers andwatched the commotion from his perch onthe bar. In the very midst of the clamortowered the melancholy Alexander P.Dill, and he was endeavoring to explain,

in his quiet, grammatical fashion. A lullthat must have been an accident carriedthe words clearly across to CharmingBilly.

"Thank you, gentlemen. I really don't carefor anything in the way of refreshment. Imerely came in to find a friend who haspromised to spend the night with me. It isgetting along toward bedtime. Have yourfun, gentlemen, if you must—but I amreally too tired to join you."

"Make 'im dance!" yelled the sheepherder,giving over the attempt to find the sum oftwelve and fourteen. "By gosh, yuh mademe dance when I struck town. Make 'imdance!"

"You go off and lay down!" commandedBilly again, and to emphasize his wordsleaned and emptied the contents of hisglass neatly inside the collar of thesheepherder. "Cool down, yuh Ba-ba-black-sheep!"

The herder forgot everything after that—everything but the desire to tear limb fromlimb one Charming Billy Boyle, who satand raked his spurs up and down themarred front of the bar and grinnedmaliciously down at him. "Go-awn off,before I take yuh all to pieces," he urgedwearily, already regretting theunjustifiable waste of good beer. "Quityour buzzing; I wanta listen over there."

"Come on 'n' have a drink!" vociferated

the hospitable one. "Yuh got to besociable, or yuh can't stop in this man'stown." So insistent was he that he laidviolent hold of Mr. Dill and tried to pullhim bodily to the bar.

"Gentlemen, this passes a joke!" protestedMr. Dill, looking around him in hisblankly melancholy way. "I do not drinkliquor. I must insist upon your stoppingthis horseplay immediately!"

"Oh, it ain't no play," asserted the insistentone darkly. "I mean it, by thunder."

It was at this point that Charming Billydecided to have a word. "Here, breakaway, there!" he yelled, pushing thebelligerent sheepherder to one side.

"Hands off that long person! That there'smy dill pickle!"

Mr. Dill was released, and Billy fanciedhazily that it was because he so ordered;as a matter of fact, Mr. Dill, catching sightof him there, had thrown the men and theirimportunities off as though they had beenrough-mannered boys. He literally plowedhis way through them and stoppeddeprecatingly before Billy.

"It is getting late," he observed, mildlyreproachful. "I thought I would show youthe way to my room, if you don't mind."

Billy stared down at him. "Well, I'm goingto be busy for a while yet," he demurred."I've got to lick this misguided son-of-a-gun that's blatting around wanting to eatme alive—and I got my eyes on yourfriend in the rear, there, that's saying

words about you, Dilly. Looks to me likeI'm going to be some occupied for quite aspell. You run along to bed and don't yuhbother none about me."

"The matter is not so urgent but what I canwait until you are ready," Mr. Dill toldhim quietly, but with decision. He foldedhis long arms and ranged himself patientlyalongside Billy. And Billy, regarding himuneasily, felt convinced that though hetarried until the sun returned Mr. Dillwould stand right there and wait—like awell-broken range-horse when the reinsare dropped to the ground. Charming Billydid not know why it made himuncomfortable, but it did and he tookimmediate measures to relieve thesensation.

He turned fretfully and cuffed theclamorous sheepherder, who seemed tolack the heart for actual hostilities butindulged in much recrimination and wasalmost in tears. "Aw, shut up!" growledBilly. "A little more uh that war-talk andI'll start in and learn yuh some manners. Idon't want any more of it. Yuh hear?"

It is a fact that trifles sometimes breedlarge events. Billy, to make good histhreat, jumped off the bar. In doing so hecame down upon the toes of Jack Morgan,the hospitable soul who had insisted upontreating Mr. Dill and who had just comeup to renew the argument. Jack Morganwas a man of uncertain temper and he alsohad toes exceedingly tender. He struckout, missed Billy, who was thinking only

of the herder, and it looked quite as thoughthe blow was meant for Mr. Dill.

After that, things happened quickly andwith some confusion. Others becameactive, one way or the other, and theclamor was great, so that it was easilyheard down the street and nearly emptiedthe other saloons.

When the worst of it was over and onecould tell for a certainty what was takingplace, Charming Billy was holding aman's face tightly against the bar and wasoccasionally beating it with his fist nonetoo gently. Mr. Dill, an arm's length away,had Jack Morgan and one other offenderclutched by the neck in either hand and hewas solemnly and systematically butting

their heads together until they howled. Thebartender had just succeeded in throwingthe sheepherder out through the back door,and he was wiping his hands and feelingvery well satisfied with himself.

"I'd oughta fired him long ago, when hefirst commenced building trouble," heremarked, to no one in particular. "Thedarned lamb-licker—he's broke and hasbeen all evening. I don't know what mademe stand for 'im long as I did."

Billy, moved perhaps by weariness ratherthan mercy, let go his man andstraightened up, feeling mechanically forhis hat. His eyes met those of themelancholy Mr. Dill.

"If you're quite through"—bang! went theheads—"perhaps we may as well"—bang!—"leave this unruly crowd"—bang!!—"and go to our room. It is after eleveno'clock." Mr. Dill looked as though hispresent occupation was unpleasant butnecessary and as though, to please Billy,he could keep it up indefinitely.

Charming Billy stood quite still, staring atthe other and at what he was doing; andwhile he stared and wondered, somethingcame into the heart of him and quitechanged his destiny. He did not knowwhat it was, or why it was so; at the timehe realized only a deep amazement thatMr. Dill, mild of manner, correct ofspeech and wistful-eyed, should bestanding there banging the heads of two

men who were considered rather hard tohandle. Certainly Jack Morgan wasreputed a "bad actor" when it came togiving blows. And while Alexander P.Dill was a big man—an enormous man,one might say—he had none of theearmarks of a fighting man. It was,perhaps, his very calmness that won Billyfor good and all. Before, Charming Billyhad felt toward him a certain amused pity;his instinct had been to protect Mr. Dill.He would never feel just that way again;Mr. Dill, it would seem, was perfectlywell able to protect himself.

"Shall we go?" Mr. Dill poised the twoheads for another bang and held them so.By this time every one in the room waswatching, but he had eyes only for Billy.

"Just as you say," Billy assentedsubmissively.

Mr. Dill shook the two with their facesclose together, led them to a couple ofchairs and set them emphatically down."Now, see if you can behave yourselves,"he advised, in the tone a father wouldhave used toward two refractory boys."You have been acting boorishly anddisgracefully all evening. It was you whodirected me wrong, to-day. You have not,at any time since I first met you, acted likegentlemen; I should be sorry to think thiscountry held many such brainless louts."He turned inquiringly toward CharmingBilly and nodded his head toward thedoor. Billy, stooping unsteadily for his hatwhich he discovered under his feet,

followed him meekly out.

CHAPTER VII.

"Till Hell's a Skating-rink."

Charming Billy opened his eyes slowly,but with every sense at the normal degreeof alertness; which was a way he had,born of light sleeping and night-watching.He had slept heavily, from the feel of hishead, and he remembered the unwisdom ofdrinking four glasses of whisky and thenchanging irresponsibly to beer. He had notundressed, it would seem, and he waslying across the middle of a bed with hisspurred boots hanging over the edge. Ared comforter had been thrown across

him, and he wondered why. He lookedaround the room and discovered Mr. Dillseated in a large, cane rocker—which wasunquestionably not big enough for his hugeperson—his feet upon another chair andhis hands folded inertly on his drawn-upknees. He was asleep, with his head lyingagainst the chair-back and his face moremelancholy than ever and more wistful.His eyes, Billy observed, were deep-sunkand dark-ringed. He sat up suddenly—didBilly, and threw off the cover with somevehemence. "Darn me for a drunkenchump!" he exclaimed, and clanked overto the chair.

"Here, Dilly"—to save the life of him hecould not refrain from addressing him so—"why in thunder didn't yuh kick me

awake, and make me get off your bed?What did yuh let me do it for—and yousetting up all night—oh, this is sure a hellof a note!"

Mr. Dill opened his eyes, stared blanklyand came back from his dreaming. "Youwere so—so impatient when I tried to getyou up," he explained in a tired voice."And you had a way of laying your handson your revolver when I insisted. It seemsyou took me for a shepherd and were veryunfriendly; so I thought it best to let youstay as you were, but I'm afraid you werenot very comfortable. One can rest somuch better between sheets. You wouldnot," he added plaintively, "even permitme to take your boots off for you."

Charming Billy sat down upon the edge ofthe bed, all tousled as he was, and staredabstractedly at Mr. Dill. Perhaps he hadnever before felt so utterly disgusted withhimself, or realized so keenly hisshortcomings. Not even the girl hadhumbled him so completely as had thislong, lank, sinfully grammatical man fromMichigan.

"You've sure got me where I live, Dilly,"he said slowly and haltingly, feelingmechanically for the makings of a smoke."Charming Billy Boyle ain't got a word tosay for himself. But if yuh ain't plumb sickand disgusted with the spectacle I've madeuh myself, yuh can count on me till hell's askating-rink. I ain't always thisaway. I dohave spells when I'm some lucid."

It was not much, but such as it was it stoodfor his oath of allegiance.

Alexander P. Dill sat up straight, his long,bony fingers—which Billy could stillmentally see gripping the necks of thosetwo in the saloon—lying loosely upon thechair-arms. "I hope you will not mentionthe matter again," he said. "I realize thatthis is not Michigan, and that thetemptations are—But we will not discussit. I shall be very grateful for yourfriendship, and—"

"Grateful!" snorted Billy, spilling tobaccoon the strip of faded ingrain carpet beforethe bed. "Grateful—hell!"

Mr. Dill looked at him a moment and there

was a certain keen man-measuring behindthe wistfulness. But he said no more aboutthe friendship of Charming Billy Boyle,which was as well.

That is why the two of them later sat aparton the sunny side of the hotel "office"—which was also a saloon—and talked ofmany things, but chiefly of the cattleindustry as Montana knows it and of thehopes and the aims of Alexander P. Dill.Perhaps, also, that is why Billy breathedclean of whisky and had the bulk of hiswinter wages still unspent in his pocket.

"Looks to me," he was saying betweenpuffs, "like you'd uh stayed back whereyuh knew the lay uh the land, instead uhdrifting out here where it's all plumb

strange to yuh."

"Well, several incidents influenced myactions," Mr. Dill explained quietly. "Ihad always lived within twenty miles ofmy birthplace. I owned a general store ina little place near the old farm, and didwell. The farm paid well, also. Thenmother died and the place did not seemquite the same. A railroad was builtthrough the town and the land I ownedthere rose enormously in value. I had asplendid location for a modern store but Icould not seem to make up my mind tochange. So I sold out everything—store,land, the home farm and all, and receiveda good figure—a very good figure. I wasvery fortunate in owning practically thewhole townsite—the new townsite, that is.

I do not like these so-called booms,however, and so I left to begin somewhereelse. I did not care to enter the mercantilebusiness again, and our doctor advised meto live as much as possible in the open air.Mother died of consumption. So I decidedto come West and buy a cattle ranch. Ibelieved I should like it. I always likedanimals."

"Uh-huh—so do I." It was not just whatCharming Billy most wanted to say, butthat much was perfectly safe, andnoncommittal to say.

Mr. Dill was silent a minute, lookingspeculatively across to the Hardup Saloonwhich was practically empty and thereforequite peaceful. Billy, because long living

on the range made silence easy, smokedand said nothing.

"Mr. Boyle," began Dill at last, in thehesitating way that he had used when Billyfirst met him, "you say you know thiscountry, and have worked at cattle-raisingfor a good many years—"

"Twelve," supplemented Charming Billy."Turned my first cow when I was sixteen."

"So you must be perfectly familiar withthe business. I frankly admit that I am notfamiliar with it. You say you are atpresent out of employment and so I amthinking seriously of offering you aposition myself, as confidential adviser ifyou like. I really need some one who can

accompany me about the country and keepme from such deplorable blunders as wasyesterday's experience. After I havebought a place, I shall need some one whois familiar with the business and willhonestly work for my interests and assistme in the details until I have myself gaineda practical working-knowledge of it. Ithink I can make such an arrangement toyour advantage as well as my own. Fromthe start the salary would be what isusually paid to a foreman. What do yousay?"

For an appreciable space Charming BillyBoyle did not say a word. He was notstupid and he saw in a flash all thepossibilities that lay in the offer. To benext the very top—to have his say in the

running of a model cow-outfit—and itshould be a model outfit if he took charge,for he had ideas of his own about howthese things should be done—to beforeman, with the right to "hire and fire" athis own discretion—He turned, flushedand bright-eyed, to Dill.

"God knows why yuh cut me out for thejob," he said in a rather astonished voice."What you've seen uh me, so far, ain't beenwhat I'd call a gilt-edge recommend. Butif you're fool enough to mean it serious,it's as I told yuh a while back: Yuh cancount on me till they're cutting figure-eights all over hell."

"That, according to the scientists who arewilling to concede the existence of such a

place, will be quite as long as I shall belikely to have need of your loyalty,"observed Mr. Dill, puckering his long faceinto the first smile Billy had seen himattempt.

He did not intimate the fact that he hadinquired very closely into the record andthe general range qualifications ofCharming Billy Boyle, sounding, for thatpurpose, every responsible man inHardup. With the new-born respect forhim bred by his peculiarly efficaciousway of handling those who annoyed himbeyond the limit, he was told the truth andrecognized it as such. So he was not reallyas rash and as given over to his impulsesas Billy, in his ignorance of the man,fancied.

The modesty of Billy would probablyhave been shocked if he had heard thetestimony of his fellows concerning him.As it was, he was rather dazed and a gooddeal inclined to wonder how Alexander P.Dill had ever managed to accumulateenough capital to start anything—let alonea cow-outfit—if he took on trust everyman he met. He privately believed thatDill had taken a long chance, and that heshould consider himself very luckybecause he had accidentally picked a manwho would not "steal him blind."

After that there were many days of ridingto and fro, canvassing all northernMontana in search of a location and anoutfit that suited them and that could be

bought. And in the riding, Mr. Dill becameunder the earnest tutelage of CharmingBilly a shade less ignorant of range waysand of the business of "raising wild cattlefor the Eastern markets."

He even came to speak quite easily of"outfits" in all the nice shades of meaningwhich are attached to that hard-workedterm. He could lay the saddle-blanketsmooth and unwrinkled, slap the saddle onand cinch it without fixing it either uponthe withers or upon the rump of his long-suffering mount. He could swing his quirtwithout damaging his own person, and herode with his stirrups where they shouldbe to accommodate the length of him—allof which speaks eloquently of the honestintentions of Dill's confidential adviser.

CHAPTER VIII.

Just a Day-dream.

Charming Billy rode humped over thesaddle-horn, as rides one whose mindfeels the weight of unpleasant thoughts.Twice he had glanced uncertainly at hiscompanion, opening his lips for speech;twice he had closed them silently andturned again to the uneven trail.

Mr. Dill also was humped forward in thesaddle, but if one might judge from hisface it was because he was cold. Thewind blew chill from out the north and

they were facing it; the trail they followedwas frozen hard and the gray clouds abovepromised snow. The cheek-bones of Dillwere purple and the point of his long nosewas very red. Tears stood in his eyes,whipped there by the biting wind.

"How far are we now from town?" heasked dispiritedly.

"Only about five miles," Billy cheered.Then, as if trivial speech had made easierwhat he had in mind to say, he turnedresolutely toward the other. "Yuh expectto meet old man Robinson there, don'tyuh?"

"That was the arrangement, as Iunderstood it"

"And you're thinking strong of buying himout?"

"His place appeals to me more than any ofthe others, and—yes, it seems to me that Ican't do better." Mr. Dill turned the collarof his coat up a bit farther—or fancied hedid so—and looked questioningly at Billy.

"Yuh gave me leave to advise yuh whereyuh needed it," Billy said almostchallengingly, "and I'm going to call yuh,right here and now. If yuh take my adviceyuh won't go making medicine with oldRobinson any more. He'll do yuh, sure.He's asking yuh double what the outfit'sworth. They all are. It looks to me likethey think you're just out here to get rid ofyour pile and the bigger chunk they can

pry loose from yuh the better. I was goingto put yuh next before this, only yuh didn'tseem to take to any uh the places realserious, so it wasn't necessary."

"I realize that one cannot buy land andcattle for nothing," Dill chuckled. "Itseemed to me that, compared with theprices others have asked, Mr. Robinson'soffer was very reasonable."

"It may be lower than Jacobs and Wilter,but that don't make it right."

"Well, there were the Two Sevens"—hemeant the Seventy-Seven, but that was amere detail—"I didn't get to see theowner, you know. I have written East,however, and should hear from him in a

few days."

"Yuh ain't likely to do business with thatlayout, because I don't believe they'd sellat any price. Old Robinson is the washoutyuh want to ride around at present; I ain'tworrying about the rest, right now. He's asmooth old devil, and he'll do yuh sure."

To this Mr. Dill made no reply whatever.He fumbled the fastenings on his coon-skin coat, tried to pull his cap lower andlooked altogether unhappy. And CharmingBilly, not at ail sure that his advice wouldbe taken or his warning heeded, stuck thespurs into his horse and set a faster pacereflecting gloomily upon the trials of beingconfidential adviser to one who, in aperfectly mild and good-mannered

fashion, goes right along doing prettymuch as he pleases.

It made him think, somehow, of MissBridger and the way she had forced him totake his gun with him when he had meantto leave it. She was like Dill in thatrespect: nice and good-natured andsmiling—only Dill smiled but seldom—and yet always managing to make you giveup your own wishes. He wished vaguelythat the wanderings of Dill would bringthem back to the Double-Crank country,instead of leading them always fartherafield. He did not, however, admit openlyto himself that he wanted to see MissBridger again; yet he did permit himself towonder if she ever played coon-can withany one else, or if she had already

forgotten the game. Probably she had, and—well, a good many other things that heremembered quite distinctly.

Later, when they had reached town, werewarmed and fed and when even Billy wasthinking seriously of sleep, Dill came overand sat down beside him solemnly, foldedhis bony hands upon knees quite as bony,regarded pensively the generously formedfoot dangling some distance before himand smiled his puckered smile.

"I have been wondering, William, if youhad not some plan of your own concerningthis cattle-raising business, which youthink is better than mine but which youhesitate to express. If you have, I hope youwill feel quite free to—er—lay it before

the head of the firm. It may interest you toknow that I have, as you would put it,'failed to connect' with Mr. Robinson. So,if you have any ideas—"

"Oh, I'm burning up with 'em," CharmingBilly retorted in a way he meant to besarcastic, but which Mr. Dill took quiteseriously.

"Then I hope you won't hesitate—"

"Now look here, Dilly," expostulated he,between puffs. "Recollect, it's your moneythat's going to feed the birds—and it'syour privilege to throw it out to suityourself. Uh course, I might day-dreamabout the way I'd start into the cow-business if I was a millionaire—"

"I'm not a millionaire," Mr. Dill hastenedto correct. "A couple of hundred thousandor so, is about all—"

"Well, a fellow don't have to pin himselfdown to just so many dollars and cents—not when he's building himself a petdream. And if a fellow dreams aboutstarting up an outfit of his own, it don'tprove he'd make it stick in reality." Thetone of Billy, however, did not expressany doubt.

Mr. Dill untangled his legs, crossed themthe other way and regarded the otherdangling foot. "I should like very much,"he hinted mildly, "to have you tell me this—er—day-dream, as you call it."

So Charming Billy, tilted back in his chairand watching with half-shut eyes theintangible smoke-wreath from hiscigarette, found words for his ownparticular air-castle which he had buildedon sunny days when the Double-Crankherds grazed peacefully around him; or onstormy nights when he sat alone in theline-camp and played solitaire with themourning wind crooning accompaniment;or on long rides alone, when the trail wasplain before him and the grasslandstretched away and away to a far sky-line,and the white clouds sailed sleepily overhis head and about him the meadowlarkssang. And while he found the words, hesomehow forgot Dill, long and lean andlank, listening beside him, and spoke morefreely than he had meant to do when Dill

first opened the subject a few minutesbefore.

"Recollect, this is just a day-dream," hebegan. "But, if I was a millionaire, or if Ihad two hundred thousand dollars—and tome they don't sound much different—I'dsure start a cow-outfit right awayimmediately at once. But I wouldn't buyout nobody; I'd go right back and start likethey did—if they're real old-timers. I'd godown south into Texas and I'd buy me abunch uh two-year-olds and bring 'em uphere, and turn 'em loose on the best pieceof open range I know—and I know apeach. In a year or so I'd go back and dothe same again, and I'd keep it up whilstmy money held out I'd build me a homeranch back somewheres in a draw in the

hills, where there's lots uh water and lotsuh shelter, and I'd get a bunch uh men thatsavvied cow-brutes, put 'em on horses thatwouldn't trim down their self-respectevery time they straddled 'em, and then I'djust ride around and watch myself get rich.And—" He stopped and dreamed silentlyover his cigarette.

"And then?" urged Mr. Dill, after amoment.

"And then—I'd likely get married, andraise a bunch uh boys to carry on thebusiness when I got old and fat, and toodamn' lazy to ride off a walk."

Mr. Dill took three minutes to weigh thematter. Then, musingly: "I'm not sure about

the boys. I'm not a marrying man, myself—but just giving a snap judgment on theother part of it, I will say it sounds—well,feasible."

CHAPTER IX.

The "Double-Crank."

The weeks that followed immediatelyafter bulged big with the things whichBilly must do or have done. For to lie onone's back in the sun with one's hat pulledlow, dreaming lazily and with minutedetail the perfect supervision of a modelcow-outfit from its very inception upthrough the buying of stock and thebuilding of corrals and the breaking ofhorses to the final shipping of greattrainloads of sleek beef, is one thing; tostart out in reality to do all that, with the

hundred little annoyances and hindranceswhich come not to one's dreaming in thesun, is something quite different.

But with all the perplexities born of hischanged condition and the responsibility itbrought him, Billy rejoiced in the workand airily planned the years to come—years in which he would lead AlexanderP. Dill straight into the ranks of theWestern millionaires; years when the sunof prosperity would stand always straightoverhead, himself a Joshua who would, byhis uplifted hands, keep it there with nevera cloud to dim the glory of its light.

For the first time in his life he rode overTexas prairies and lost thereby someideals and learned many things, the while

he spent more money than he had everowned—or ever expected to own—as thepreliminary to making his pet dream cometrue; truth to tell, it mattered little to BillyBoyle whether his dream came true forhimself or for another, so long as hehimself were the chief magician.

So it was with a light heart that he swungdown from the train at Tower, after hishoming flight, and saw Dill, conspicuousas a flagstaff, waiting for him on theplatform, his face puckered into a smile ofwelcome and his bony fingers extendedready to grip painfully the hand ofCharming Billy.

"I'm very glad to see you back, William,"he greeted earnestly. "I hope you are well,

and that you met with no misfortune whileyou were away. I have been very anxiousfor your return, as I need your advice upona matter which seems to me of primeimportance. I did not wish to make anydecisive move until I had consulted withyou, and time is pressing. Did you—er—buy as many cattle as you expected toget?" It seemed to Billy that there was ananxious note in his voice. "Your letterswere too few and too brief to keep meperfectly informed of your movements."

"Why, everything was lovely at my end uhthe trail, Dilly—only I fell down on themfour thousand two-year-olds. Parts uh thecountry was quarantined for scab, and Iwent way around them places. And I wastoo late to see the cattlemen in a bunch

when they was at the Association—onlyyou ain't likely to savvy that part uh thebusiness—and had to chase 'em all overthe country. Uh course it was my luck tohave 'em stick their prices up on the end ofa pole, where I didn't feel like climbingafter 'em. So I only contracted for a coupleuh thousand to be laid down in Billingssomewhere between the first and the tenthof June, at twenty-one dollars a head. Itwas the best I could do this year—but nextwinter I can go down earlier, before theother buyers beat me to it, and do a lotbetter. Don't yuh worry, Dilly; it ain'tserious."

On the contrary, Dill looked relieved, andBilly could not help noticing it. His ownface clouded a little. Perhaps Dill had lost

his money, or the bulk of it, and theycouldn't do all the things they had meant todo, after all; how else, thought Billyuneasily, could he look like that over whatshould ordinarily be something of adisappointment? He remembered that Dill,after the workings of the cattle businessfrom the very beginning had beenpainstakingly explained to him just beforeBilly started south, had been anxious toget at least four thousand head of youngstock on the range that spring. Somethingmust have gone wrong. Maybe a bank hadgone busted or something like that. Billystole a glance up at the other, shamblingsilently along beside him, and decided thatsomething had certainly happened—andon the heels of that he remembered oddlythat he had felt almost exactly like this

when Miss Bridger had asked him to showher where was the coffee, and therewasn't any coffee. There was the sameheavy feeling in his chest, and the same—

"I wrote you a letter three or four days ago—on the third, to be exact," Dill wassaying. "I don't suppose it reached you,however. I was going to have you meet mein Hardup; but then your telegram wasforwarded to me there and I came on hereat once. I only arrived this morning. I thinkthat after we have something to eat wewould better start out immediately, unlessyou have other plans. I drove over in a rig,and as the horses have rested severalhours and are none the worse for thedrive, I think we can easily make thereturn trip this afternoon."

"You're the doctor," assented Billybriefly, more uneasy than before and yetnot quite at the point of asking questions.In his acquaintance with Dill he hadlearned that it was not always wise toquestion too closely; where Dill wished togive his confidence he gave it freely, butbeyond the limit he had fixed for himselfwas a stone wall, masked by the flowers,so to speak, of his unfailing courtesy.Billy had once or twice inadvertentlylocated that wall.

A great depression seized upon him andmade him quite indifferent to the littlepleasures of homecoming; of seeing thegrass green and velvety and hearing thefamiliar notes of the meadow-larks andthe curlews. The birds had not returned

when he went away, and now the air wasmusical with them. Driving over theprairies seemed fairly certain of beinganything but pleasant to-day, with Dilldoubled awkwardly in the seat besidehim, carrying on an intermittent monologueof trivial stuff to which Billy scarcelylistened. He could feel that there wassomething at the back of it all, and thatwas enough for him at present. He was noteven anxious now to hear just what wasthe form of the disaster which hadovertaken them.

"While you were away," Dill began at lastin the tone that braces one instinctively forthe worst, "I met accidentally a man ofwhom I had heard, but whom I had notseen. In the course of our casual

conversation he discovered that I wasabout to launch myself and my capital intothe cattle-business, whereupon he himselfmade me an offer which I felt should notbe lightly brushed aside."

"They all did!" Billy could not helpflinging out half-resentfully, when heremembered that but for his timelyinterference Dill would have been gulledmore than once.

"I admit that in my ignorance some offersadvantageous only to those who madethem appealed to me strongly. But Ibelieve you will agree with me that this isdifferent. In this case I am offered a fullsection of land, with water-rights,buildings, corrals, horses, wagons and all

improvements necessary to the running ofa good outfit, and ten thousand head ofmixed cattle, just as they are now runningloose on the range, for three hundredthousand dollars. I need only pay half thisamount down, a five-year mortgage ateight per cent. on the property coveringthe remainder, to be paid in five yearlyinstallments, falling due after shippingtime. Now that you did not buy as muchyoung stock as we at first intended, I canreadily make the first payment on thisplace and have left between ten andtwelve thousand dollars to carry us alonguntil we begin to get some returns from theinvestment I am anxious to have you lookover the proposition, and tell me what youthink of it. If you are in favor of buying,we can have immediate possession; ten

days after the deal is closed, I think theman said."

Billy tilted his hat-brim a bit to keep thesun from his eyes, and considered gravelythe proposition. It was a great relief todiscover that his fears were groundlessand that it was only another scheme ofDilly's; another snare which he, perhaps,would be compelled, in Dill's interest, tomove aside. He put the reins downbetween his knees and gripped themtightly while he made a cigarette. It wasnot until he was pinching the end shut thathe spoke.

"If it's as you say"—and he meant nooffense—"it looks like a good thing, allright. But yuh can't most always tell. I'd

have to see it—say, yuh might tell mewhere this bonanza is, and what's thename uh the brand. If it's anywheresaround here I ought to know the place, allright."

Alexander P. Dill must, after all, have hadsome sense of humor; his eyes lost theirmelancholy enough almost to twinkle."Well, the owner's name is Brown," hesaid slowly. "I believe they call the brandthe Double-Crank. It is located—"

"Located—hell!—do yuh think I don'tknow?" The cigarette, ready to light as itwas, slipped from Billy's fingers anddropped unheeded over the wheel to thebrown trail below. He took the reinscarefully from between his knees,

straightened one that had become twistedand turned out upon the prairie to avoid arough spot where a mud-puddle had driedin hard ridges. Beyond, he swung backagain, leaned and flicked an early horse-fly from the ribs of the off-horse, touchedthe other one up a bit with his whip andsettled back at ease, tilting his hat at quiteanother angle.

"Oh, where have yuh been, Billy boy,Billy boy?

Oh, where have yuh been, charmingBilly?"

He hummed, in a care-free way that wouldhave been perfectly maddening to any onewith nerves.

"I suppose I am to infer from your silencethat you do not take kindly to theproposition," observed Mr. Dill, in acolorless tone which betrayed the fact thathe did have nerves.

"I can take a josh, all right," Billy stoppedsinging long enough to say. "For a steady-minded cuss, yuh do have surprisingstreaks, Dilly, and that's a fact. Yuh sprungit on me mighty smooth, for not havingmuch practice—I'll say that for yuh."

Mr. Dill looked hurt. "I hope you do notseriously think that I would joke upon amatter of business," he protested.

"Well, I know old Brown pretty tolerablewell—and I ain't accusing him uh ribbing

up a big josh on yuh. He ain't that brand."

"I must confess I fail to get your point ofview," said Mr. Dill, with just a hint ofirascibility in his voice. "There is no jokeunless you are forcing one upon me now.Mr. Brown made me a bona-fide offer,and I have made a small deposit to hold ituntil you came and I could consult you.We have three days left in which to decidefor or against it. It is all perfectly straight,I assure you."

Billy took time to consider thispossibility. "Well, in that case, and alljokes aside, I'd a heap rather have therunning uh the Double-Crank than bePresident and have all the newspapershollering how 'President Billy Boyle got

up at eight this morning and had ham-and-eggs for his breakfast, and then walkedaround the block with the Queen uhEngland hanging onto his left arm,' oranything like that But what I can't seem toget percolated through me is why, in God'sname, the Double-Crank wants to sell."

"That," Mr. Dill remarked, his businessinstincts uppermost, "it seems to me, neednot concern us—seeing that they will sell,and at a price we can handle."

"I reckon you're right. Would yuh mindsaying over the details uh the offer again?"

"Mr. Brown"—Dill cleared his throat—"offered to sell me a full section ofland, extending from the line-fence of the

home ranch, east—"

"Uh-huh—now what the devil's his idea inthat?" Billy cut in earnestly. "The Double-Crank owns about three or four miles uhbottom land, up the creek west uh thehome ranch. Wonder why he wants to holdthat out?"

"I'm sure I do not know," answered Dill."He did not mention that to me, butconfined himself, naturally, to what hewas willing to sell."

"Oh it don't matter. And all the range stuff,yuh said—ten thousand head, and—"

"I believe he is reserving somethoroughbred stock which he has bought in

the last year or two. The stock on therange—the regular range grade-stock—allgoes, as well as the saddle-horses."

"Must be the widow said yes and wantshim to settle down and be a gentlefarmer," decided Billy after a moment.

"We will meet him in Hardup to-night orto-morrow," Dill observed, as if he wereanxious to decide the matter finally. "Doyou think we would better buy?" It wasone of his little courteous ways to say"we" in discussing a business transaction,just as though Billy were one of the firm.

"Buy? You bet your life we'll buy! I wishtthe papers was all signed up and in yourinside pocket right now, Dilly. I'm going

to get heart failure the worst kind if there'sany hitch. Lord, what luck!"

"Then, we will consider the matter asdefinitely settled," said Dill, with a sighof satisfaction. "Brown cannot rescindnow—there is my deposit to bind thebargain. I will say I should have beensorely disappointed if you had not shownthat you favored the idea. It seems to me tobe just what we want."

"Oh—that part. But it seems to me that oldBrown is sure locoed to give us a chanceat the outfit. He's gone plumb silly. Hisfriends oughta appoint a guardian overhim—only I hope they won't get action tillthis deal is cinched tight." With that, Billyrelapsed into crooning his ditty. But there

were odd breaks when he stopped short inthe middle of a line and forgot to finish,and there was more than one cigarettewasted by being permitted to go cold andthen being chewed abstractedly until itnearly fell to pieces.

Beside him, Alexander P. Dill, foldedloosely together in the seat, caressed hisknees and stared unseeingly at the trailahead of them and said never a word formore than an hour.

CHAPTER X.

The Day We Celebrate.

The days that followed were to Billymuch like a delicious dream. Sometimeshe stopped short and wondered uneasily ifhe would wake up pretty soon to find thathe was still an exile from the Double-Crank, wandering with Dill over thecountry in search of a location. Sometimeshe laughed aloud unexpectedly, and said,"Hell!" in a chuckling undertone whencame fresh realization of the miracle. Butmostly he was an exceedingly busy youngman, with hands and brain too full of the

stress of business to do much wondering.

They were in possession of the Double-Crank, now—he in full charge, walkingthe path which his own feet, when he wasmerely a "forty-dollar puncher," hadhelped wear deep to the stable andcorrals; giving orders where he had beenwont to receive them; riding horses whichhe had long completed, but which hadheretofore been kept sacred to the use ofJawbreaker and old Brown himself; eatingand sleeping in the house with Dill insteadof making one of the crowd in the bunk-house; ordering the coming and going ofthe round-up crew and tasting to the fullthe joys—and the sorrows—of being"head push" where he had for long beencontent to serve. Truly, the world had

changed amazingly for one Charming BillyBoyle.

Most of the men he had kept on, for heliked them well and they had faith tobelieve that success would not spoil him.The Pilgrim he had promised himself thepleasure of firing bodily off the ranchwithin an hour of his first taking control—but the Pilgrim had not waited. He had leftthe ranch with the Old Man and where hehad gone did not concern Billy at the time.For there was the shipment of young stockfrom the South to meet and drive up to thehome range, and there was the calf round-up to start on time, and after all the redtape of buying the outfit and turning overthe stock had been properly wound up,time was precious in the extreme through

May and June and well into July.

But habit is strong upon a man even afterthe conditions which bred the habit haveutterly changed. One privilege had beenalways kept inviolate at the Double-Crank, until it had come to be looked uponas an inalienable right. The GloriousFourth had been celebrated, come rain,come shine. Usually the celebration wasso generous that it did not stop atmidnight; anywhere within a week wasconsidered permissible, a gradualtapering off—not to say sobering up—being the custom with the more hilarioussouls.

When Dill with much solemnity tore offJune from the calendar in the dining room

—the calendar with Custer's Last Chargerioting redly above the dates—Billy,home for a day from the roundup, realizedsuddenly that time was on the high lope; atleast, that is how he put it to Dill.

"Say, Dilly, we sure got to jar loose fromgetting rich long enough to take in thatpicnic over to Bluebell Grove. Didn'tknow there was a picnic or a BluebellGrove? Well now, there is. Over onHorned-Toad Creek—nice, pretty name togo with the grove, ain't it?—they've got apatch uh shade big over as my hat. Rightback up on the hill is the schoolhousewhere they do their dancing, and they'vegot a table or two and a swing for the kidsto fall outa—and they call it BluebellGrove because yuh never saw a bluebell

within ten mile uh the place. That's wherethe general round-up for the Fourth ispulled off this year—so Jim Bleeker wastelling me this morning. We sure got to bepresent, Dilly."

"I'm afraid I'm not the sort of man to shinein society, William," dissented the othermodestly. "You can go, and—"

"Don't yuh never dance?" Billy eyed himspeculatively. A man under fifty—andDill might be anywhere between thirty andforty—who had two sound legs and yetdid not dance!

"Oh, I used to, after a fashion. But my feetare so far off that I find communicationwith them necessarily slow, and they have

a habit of embarking in wild ventures oftheir own. I do not believe they are reallypopular with the feminine element,William. And so I'd rather—"

"Aw, you'll have to go and try it a whirl,anyhow. We ain't any of us experts. Yuhsee, the boys have been accustomed tohaving the wheels of industry stoprevolving on the Fourth, and turning kindawobbly for four or five days after. I don'tfeel like trying to break 'em in to keep onworking—do you?"

"To use your own term," said Dill,suddenly reckless of his diction, "you'resure the doctor."

"Well, then, the proper dope for this case

is, all hands show up at the picnic." Hepicked up his hat from the floor, slapped ittwice against his leg to remove the dust,pinched the crown into four dents, set itupon his head at a jaunty angle and wentout, singing softly:

"She's a young thing, and cannot leave hermother."

Dill, looking after him, puckered his faceinto what passed with him for a smile. "Iwonder now," he meditated aloud, "ifWilliam is not thinking of some particularyoung lady who—er—who 'cannot leaveher mother'." If he had only known it,William was; he was also wonderingwhether she would be at the picnic. And ifshe were at the picnic, would she

remember him? He had only seen her thatone night—and to him it seemed a verylong while ago. He thought, however, thathe might be able to recall himself to hermind—supposing she had forgotten. It wasa long time ago, he kept remindinghimself, and the light was poor and hehadn't shaved for a week—he had alwaysafterward realized that with much mentaldiscomfort—and he really did look a lotdifferent when he had on his "war-togs,"by which he meant his best clothes. Hewouldn't blame her at all if she passedhim up for a stranger, just at first. A greatdeal more he thought on the same subject,and quite as foolishly.

Because of much thinking on the subject,when he and Dill rode down the trail

which much recent passing had madeunusually dusty, with the hot sunlight ofthe Fourth making the air quiver palpablyaround them; with the cloudless bluearching hotly over their heads and with thefour by six cotton flag flying aninvoluntary signal of distress—on accountof its being hastily raised bottom-side-upand left that way—and beckoning themfrom the little clump of shade below, theheart of Charming Billy Boyle beatunsteadily under the left pocket of his soft,cream-colored silk shirt, and the cheeks ofhim glowed red under the coppery tan.Dill was not the sort of man who lovesfast riding and they ambled along quitedecorously—"like we was headed forprayer-meeting with a singing-book undereach elbow," thought Billy, secretly

resentful of the pace.

"I reckon there'll be quite a crowd," heremarked wistfully. "I see a good manyhorses staked out already."

Dill nodded absently, and Billy took tosinging his pet ditty; one must dosomething when one is covering the lastmile of a journey toward a place full of allsorts of delightful possibilities—andcovering that mile at a shambling trotwhich is truly maddening.

"She can make a punkin pie quick's a catcan wink her eye,

She's a young thing, and cannot leave hermother!"

"But, of course," observed Mr. Dill quiteunexpectedly, "you know, William, timewill remedy that drawback."

Billy started, looked suspiciously at theother, grew rather red and shut up like aclam. He did more; he put the spurs to hishorse and speedily hid himself in a dust-cloud, so that Dill, dutifully keeping pacewith him, made a rather spectaculararrival whether he would or no.

Charming Billy, his hat carefully dimpled,his blue tie fastidiously knotted andpierced with the Klondyke nugget-pinwhich was his only ornament, wanderedhastily through the assembled groups andslapped viciously at mosquitoes. Twicehe shied at a flutter of woman-garments,

retreated to a respectable distance andreconnoitred with a fine air ofindifference, to find that the flutteraccompanied the movements of some girlfor whom he cared not at all.

In his nostrils was the indefinable,unmistakable picnic odor—the odor ofcrushed grasses and damp leaf-mouldstirred by the passing of many feet, themingling of cheap perfumes and starchedmuslin and iced lemonade andsandwiches; in his ears the jumble oflaughter and of holiday speech, thesquealing of children in a mob around theswing, the protesting squeak of the ropesas they swung high, the snorting of horsestied just outside the enchanted ground.And through the tree-tops he could

glimpse the range-land lying asleep in thehot sunlight, unchanged, uncaring, with thewild range-cattle feeding leisurely uponthe slopes and lifting heads occasionallyto snuff suspiciously the unwonted soundsand smells that drifted up to them onvagrant breezes.

He introduced Dill to four or five menwhom he thought might be congenial, lefthim talking solemnly with a man who atsome half-forgotten period had come fromMichigan, and wandered aimlessly onthrough the grove. Fellows there were inplenty whom he knew, but he passed themwith a brief word or two. Truth to tell, forthe most part they were otherwiseoccupied and had no time for him.

He loitered over to the swing, saw that theenthusiasts who were making so muchnoise were all youngsters under fifteen orso and that they hailed his coming with ajoy tinged with self-interest. He rose tothe bait of one dark-eyed miss who hadher hair done in two braids crossed andtied close to her head with red-white-and-blue ribbon, and who smiled alluringlyand somewhat toothlessly and remarkedthat she liked to go 'way, 'way up till itmost turned over, and that it didn't scareher a bit. He swung her almost intohysterics and straightway found himselfexceedingly popular with other braided-and-tied young misses. Charming Billynever could tell afterward how long orhow many he swung 'way, 'way up; heknew that he pushed and pushed until his

arms ached and the hair on his foreheadbecame unpleasantly damp under his hat.

"That'll just about have to do yuh, kids,"he rebelled suddenly and left them,anxiously patting his hair and generallyresettling himself as he went. Once morein a dispirited fashion he threaded thecrowd, which had grown somewhatlarger, side-stepped a group which calledafter him, and went on down to the creek.

"I'm about the limit, I guess," he toldhimself irritably. "Why the dickens didn't Ihave the sense and nerve to ride over andask her straight out if she was coming? Icoulda drove her over, maybe—if she'dcome with me. I coulda took the bay teamand top-buggy, and done the thing right. I

coulda—hell, there's a heap uh things Icoulda done that would uh been a lot morewise than what I did do! Maybe she ain'tcoming at all, and—"

On the heels of that he saw a spring-wagon, come rattling down the trail acrossthe creek. There were two seats full, andtwo parasols were bobbing seductively,and one of them was blue. "I'll bet a dollarthat's them now," murmured Billy, andonce more felt anxiously of his hair whereit had gone limp under his hat. "Darnedkids—they'd uh kept me there till I lookedlike I'd been wrassling calves half a day,"went with the patting. He turned and wentbriskly through an empty and untrampledpart of the grove to the place where thewagon would be most likely to stop. "I'm

sure going to make good to-day or—" Anda little farther—"What if it ain't them?"

Speedily he discovered that it was "them,"and at the same time he discoveredsomething else which pleased him not atall. Dressed with much care, so that evenBilly must reluctantly own him good-looking enough, and riding so close to theblue parasol that his horse barely escapedgrazing a wheel, was the Pilgrim. Heglared at Billy in unfriendly fashion andwould have shut him off completely fromapproach to the wagon; but a shining milkcan, left carelessly by a bush, caught theeye of his horse, and after that the Pilgrimwas very busy riding erratically in circlesand trying to keep in touch with hissaddle.

Billy, grown surprisingly bold, wentstraight to where the blue parasol wasbeing closed with dainty deliberation. "Alittle more, and you'd have been late fordinner," he announced, smiling up at her,and held out his eager arms. Diplomacy,perhaps, should have urged him to assistthe other lady first—but Billy Boyle wasquite too direct to be diplomatic andbesides, the other lady was on theopposite side from him.

Miss Bridger may have been surprised,and she may or may not have beenpleased; Billy could only guess at heremotions—granting she felt any. But shesmiled down at him and permitted thearms to receive her, and she alsopermitted—though with some hesitation—

Billy to lead her straight away from thewagon and its occupants and from thegyrating Pilgrim to the deep delights of thegrove.

"Mr. Walland is a good rider, don't youthink?" murmured Miss Bridger, gazingover her shoulder.

"He's a bird," said Billy evenly, and waspolite enough not to mention what kind ofbird. He was wondering what on earth hadbrought those two together and why, afterthat night, Miss Bridger should be friendlywith the Pilgrim; but of these things hesaid nothing, though he did find a gooddeal to say upon pleasanter subjects.

So far as any one knew, Charming Billy

Boyle, while he had done many things, hadnever before walked boldly into a picniccrowd carrying a blue parasol as if itwere a rifle and keeping step as best hemight over the humps and hollows of thegrove with a young woman. Many therewere who turned and looked again—andthese were the men who knew him best.As for Billy, his whole attitude was one ofdetermination; he was not particularlylover-like—had he wanted to be, hewould not have known how. He wasresolved to make the most of hisopportunities, because they were likely tobe few and because he had an instinct thathe should know the girl better—he hadeven dreamed foolishly, once or twice, ofsome day marrying her. But to clinch all,he had no notion of letting the Pilgrim

offend her by his presence.

So he somehow got her wedged betweentwo fat women at one of the tables, andstood behind and passed things impartiallyand ate ham sandwiches and otherindigestibles during the intervals. He hadthe satisfaction of seeing the Pilgrim comewithin ten feet of them, hover therescowling for a minute or two and thenretreat. "He ain't forgot the licking I gavehim," thought Billy vaingloriously, and hida smile in the delectable softness of awedge of cake with some kind of creamyfilling.

"I made that cake," announced MissBridger over her shoulder when she sawwhat he was eating. "Do you like it as

well as—chicken stew?"

Whereupon Billy murmured incoherentlyand wished the two fat women ten milesaway. He had not dared—he would neverhave dared—refer to that night, or mentionchicken stew or prune pies or even driedapricots in her presence; but with her ownhand she had brushed aside the veil ofconstraint that had hung between them.

"I wish I'd thought to bring a prune pie,"he told her daringly, in his eagerness halfstrangling over a crumb of cake.

"Nobody wants prune pie at a picnic,"declared one of the fat womensententiously. "You might as well bringfried bacon and done with it."

"Picnics," added the other and fatterwoman, "iss for getting somet'ings t' eatyuh don'd haff every day at home." Topoint the moral she reached for a plate offluted and iced molasses cakes.

" I love prune pies," asserted MissBridger, and laughed at the snorts whichcame from either side.

Billy felt himself four inches taller justthen. "Give me stewed prairie-chicken,"he stooped to murmur in her ear—or, to beexact, in the blue bow on her hat.

"Ach, you folks didn'd ought to come to apicnic!" grunted the fatter woman indisgust.

The two who had the secret between themlaughed confidentially, and Miss Bridgereven turned her head away around so thattheir eyes could meet and emphasize thejoke.

Billy looked down at the big, blue bowand at the soft, blue ruffly stuff on hershoulders—stuff that was just thin enoughso that one caught elusive suggestions ofthe soft, pinky flesh beneath—andwondered vaguely why he had nevernoticed the beating in his throat before—and what would happen if he reachedaround and tilted back her chin and—"Thunder! I guess I've sure got 'em, allright!" he brought himself up angrily, andrefrained from carrying the subject farther.

It was rumored that the dancing wouldshortly begin in the schoolhouse up thehill, and Billy realized suddenly withsome compunction that he had forgotten allabout Dill. "I want to introduce my newboss to yuh, Miss Bridger," he said whenthey had left the table and she wassmoothing down the ruffly blue stuff in anadorably feminine way. "He isn't muchjust to look at, but he's the whitest man Iever knew. You wait here a minute and I'llgo find him"—which was a foolish thingfor him to do, as he afterward found out.

For when he had hunted the whole lengthof the grove, he found Dill standing like ablasted pine tree in the middle of a circleof men—men who were married, and sowere not wholly taken up with the

feminine element—and he wasdiscoursing to them earnestly andgrammatically upon the capitalistictendencies of modern politics. Billy stoodand listened long enough to see that therewas no hope of weaning his interestimmediately, and then went back to wherehe had left Miss Bridger. She was notthere. He looked through the nearestgroups, approached one of the fat women,who was industriously sorting the remainsof the feast and depositing the largest andmost attractive pieces of cake in her ownbasket, and made bold to inquire if sheknew where Miss Bridger had gone.

"Gone home after some prune pie, I guessmaybe," she retorted quellingly, and Billyasked no farther.

Later he caught sight of a blue flutter in theswing; investigated and saw that it wasMiss Bridger, and that the Pilgrim, smilingand with his hat set jauntily back on hishead, was pushing the swing. They did notcatch sight of Billy for he did not lingerthere. He turned short around, walkedpurposefully out to the edge of the grovewhere his horse was feeding at the end ofhis rope, picked up the rope and led thehorse over to where his saddle lay on itsside, the neatly folded saddle-blanket laidacross it. "Darn it, stand still!" he growledunjustly, when the horse merely took theliberty of switching a fly off his rump.Billy picked up the blanket, shook thewrinkles out mechanically, held it beforehim ready to lay across the waiting backof Barney; shook it again, hesitated and

threw it violently back upon the saddle.

"Go on off—I don't want nothing of yuh,"he admonished the horse, which turnedand looked at him inquiringly. "I ain'tthrough yet—I got another chip to put up."He made him a cigarette, lighted it andstrolled nonchalantly back to the grove.

CHAPTER XI.

"When I Lift My EyebrowsThis Way."

"Oh, where have you been, Billy boy,Billy boy?

Oh, where have you been, charmingBilly?"

Somewhere behind him a daring youngvoice was singing. Billy turned with a realstart, and when he saw her coming gaylydown a little, brush-hidden path and knewthat she was alone, the heart of him turneda complete somersault—from the feel of

it.

"My long friend, Dilly, was busy, and so I—I went to look after my horse," heexplained, his mind somewhat in a jumble.How came she to be there, and why didshe sing those lines? How did she knowthat was his song, or—did she really careat all? And where was the Pilgrim?

"Mr. Walland and I tried the swing, but Idon't like it; it made me horribly dizzy,"she said, coming up to him. "Then I wentto find Mama Joy—"

"Who?" Billy had by that time recoveredhis wits enough to know just exactly whatshe said.

"Mama Joy—my stepmother. I call herthat. You see, father wants me to call hermama—he really wanted it mother, but Icouldn't—and she's so young to have mefor a daughter, so she wants me to call herJoy; that's her name. So I call her both andplease them both, I hope. Did you everstudy diplomacy, Mr. Boyle?"

"I never did, but I'm going to start rightin," Billy told her, and half meant it.

"A thorough understanding of the subjectis indispensable—when you have astepmother—a young stepmother. You'vemet her, haven't you?"

"No," said Billy. He did not want to talkabout her stepmother, but he hated to tell

her so. "Er—yes, I believe I did see heronce, come to think of it," he addedhonestly when memory prompted him.

Miss Bridger laughed, stopped, andlaughed again. "How Mama Joy wouldhate you if she knew that!" she exclaimedrelishfully.

"Why?"

"Oh, you wait! If ever I tell her that you—that anybody ever met her and then forgot!Why, she knows the color of your hair andeyes, and she knows the pattern of thathorsehair hat-band and the size of yourboots—she admires a man whose feethaven't two or three inches for every footof his height—she says you wear fives,

and you don't lack much of being six feettall, and—"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" protested Billy,very red and uncomfortable. "What have Idone to yuh that you throw it into me likethat? My hands are up—and they'll stay upif you'll only quit it."

Miss Bridger looked at him sidelong andlaughed to herself. "That's to pay you forforgetting that you ever met Mama Joy,"she asserted. "I shouldn't be surprised ifnext week you'll have forgotten that youever met me. And if you do, after thatchicken stew—"

"You're a josher," said Billy helplessly,not being prepared to say just all he

thought about the possibility of hisforgetting her. He wished that heunderstood women better, so that he mightthe better cope with the vagaries of thisone; and so great was his ignorance that henever dreamed that every man since Adamhad wished the same thing quite asfutilely.

"I'm not going to josh now," she promised,with a quick change of manner. "Youhaven't—I know you haven't, but I'll giveyou a chance to dissemble—you haven't apartner for the dance, have you?"

"No. Have you?" Billy did have thecourage to say that, though he dared notsay more.

"Well, I—I could be persuaded," shehinted shamelessly.

"Persuade nothing! Yuh belong to me, andif anybody tries to throw his loop overyour head, why—" Billy lookeddangerous; he meant the Pilgrim.

"Thank you." She seemed relieved, and itwas plain she did not read into his wordsany meaning beyond the dance, thoughBilly was secretly hoping that she would."Do you know, I think you're perfectlylovely. You're so—so comfortable. WhenI've known you a little longer I expect I'llbe calling you Charming Billy, or elseBilly Boy. If you'll stick close to me allthrough this dance and come every time Ilift my eyebrows this way"—she came

near getting kissed, right then, but shenever knew it—"and say it's your danceand that I promised it to you before, I'll be—awfully grateful and obliged."

"I wisht," said Billy pensively, "I had thenerve to take all this for suddenadmiration; but I savvy, all right. Somepoor devil's going to get it handed to himto-night."

For the first time Miss Bridger blushedconsciously. "I—well, you'll be good andobliging and do just what I want, won'tyou?"

"Sure!" said Billy, not trusting himself tosay more. Indeed, he had to set his teethhard on that word to keep more from

tumbling out. Miss Bridger seemed all atonce anxious over something.

"You waltz and two-step and polka andschottische, don't you?" Her eyes, as shelooked up at him, reminded Billy achinglyof that time in the line-camp when sheasked him for a horse to ride home. Theyhad the same wistful, pleading look. Billygritted his teeth.

"Sure," he answered again.

Miss Bridger sighed contentedly. "I knowit's horribly mean and selfish of me, butyou're so good—and I'll make it up to yousome time. Really I will! At some otherdance you needn't dance with me once, orlook at me, even—That will even things

up, won't it?"

"Sure," said Billy for the third time.

They paced slowly, coming into view ofthe picnic crowd, hearing the incoherentmurmur of many voices. Miss Bridgerlooked at him uncertainly, laughed a littleand spoke impulsively. "You needn't do it,Mr. Boyle, unless you like. It's only ajoke, anyway; I mean, my throwing myselfat you like that. Just a foolish joke; I'moften foolish, you know. Of course, I knowyou wouldn't misunderstand or anythinglike that, but it is mean of me to drag youinto it by the hair of the head, almost, justto play a joke on some one—on MamaJoy. You're too good-natured. You're adirect temptation to people who haven't

any conscience. Really and truly, youneedn't do it at all."

"Yuh haven't heard me raising any howl,have yuh?" inquired Billy, eying herslantwise. "I'm playing big luck, if yuh askme."

"Well—if you really don't mind, andhaven't any one else—"

"I haven't," Billy assured her unsmilingly."And I really don't mind. I think I—kindalike the prospect." He was trying to matchher mood and he was not at all sure that hewas a success. "There's one thing. If yuhget tired uh having me under your feet allthe time, why—Dilly's a stranger and anawful fine fellow; I'd like to have you—

well, be kinda nice to him. I want him tohave a good time, you see, and you'll likehim. You can't help it. And it will squareup anything yuh may feel yuh might oweme—"

"I'll be just lovely to Dilly," Miss Bridgerpromised him with emphasis. "It will be afair bargain, then, and I won't feel so—sosmall about asking you what I did. Youcan help me play a little joke, and I'lldance with Duly. So," she finished in atone of satisfaction, "we'll be even. I feela great deal better now, because I can payyou back."

Billy, on that night, was more keenlyobservant than usual and there was muchthat he saw. He saw at once that Miss

Bridger lifted her eyebrows in the wayshe had demonstrated as this way,whenever the Pilgrim approached her. Hesaw that the Pilgrim was lookingextremely bloodthirsty and went outfrequently—Billy guessed shrewdly thathis steps led to where the drink was notwater—and the sight cheered himconsiderably. Yet it hurt him a little toobserve that, when the Pilgrim was absentor showed no sign of meaning to intrudeupon her, Miss Bridger did not lift hereyebrows consciously. Still, she was atall times pleasant and friendly and he triedto be content.

"Mr. Boyle, you've been awfully good,"she rewarded him when it was over. "AndI think Mr. Dill is fine! Do you know, he

waltzes beautifully. I'm sure it was easy tokeep my side of the bargain."

Billy noticed the slight, inquiringemphasis upon the word my, and hesmiled down reassuringly into her face."Uh course mine was pretty hard," heteased, "but I hope I made good, all right."

"You," she said, looking steadily up athim, "are just exactly what I said youwere. You are comfortable."

Billy did a good deal of thinking while hesaddled Barney in the gray of the morning,with Dill at a little distance, looking tallerthan ever in the half light. When he gavethe saddle its final, little tentative shakeand pulled the stirrup around so that he

could stick in his toe, he gave also a snortof dissatisfaction.

"Hell!" he said to himself. "I don't knowas I care about being too blamecomfortable. There's a limit to that kindathing—with her!"

"What's that?" called Dill, who had heardhis voice.

"Aw, nothing," lied Billy, swinging up. "Iwas just cussing my hoss."

CHAPTER XII.

Dilly Hires a Cook.

It is rather distressful when one cannotrecount all sorts of exciting things asnicely fitted together as if they had beencarefully planned and rehearsedbeforehand. It would have been extremelygratifying and romantic if Charming BillyBoyle had dropped everything in the lineof work and had ridden indefatigably thetrail which led to Bridger's; it would havebeen exciting if he had sought out thePilgrim and precipitated trouble and flyinglead. But Billy, though he might have

enjoyed it, did none of those things. Herode straight to the ranch with Dill—rather silent, to be sure, but bearing noneof the marks of a lovelorn young man—drank three cups of strong coffee with fourheaping teaspoonfuls of sugar to each cup,pulled off his boots, lay down upon themost convenient bed and slept until noon.When the smell of dinner assailed hisnostrils he sat up yawning and a good dealtousled, drew on his boots and made him acigarette. After that he ate his dinner withrelish, saddled and rode away to wherethe round-up was camped, his mannerutterly practical and lacking the faintesttinge of romance. As to his thoughts—hekept them jealously to himself.

He did not even glimpse Miss Bridger for

three months or more. He was full of theaffairs of the Double-Crank; riding ingreat haste to the ranch or to town,hurrying back to the round-up and workingmuch as he used to work, except that nowhe gave commands instead of receivingthem. For they were short-handed thatsummer and, as he explained to Dill, hecouldn't afford to ride around and look asimportant as he felt.

"Yuh wait, Dilly, till we get things runningthe way I want 'em," he encouraged on oneof his brief calls at the ranch. "I was kindasurprised to find things wasn't going assmooth as I used to think; when yuhhaven't got the whole responsibility onyour own shoulders, yuh don't realizewhat a lot of things need to be done.

There's them corrals, for instance: Ihelped mend and fix and toggle 'em, but itnever struck me how rotten they are till Ilooked 'em over this spring. There's abouta million things to do before snow flies,or we won't be able to start out fresh inthe spring with everything running smooth.And if I was you, Dilly, I'd go on a stillhunt for another cook here at the ranch.This coffee's something fierce. I had mydoubts about Sandy when we hired him.He always did look to me like he wasbuilt for herding sheep more than he wasfor cooking." This was in August.

"I have been thinking seriously of gettingsome one else in his place," Dillanswered, in his quiet way. "There isn'tvery much to do here; if some one came

who would take an interest and cook justwhat we wanted—I will own I have notaste for that peculiar mixture whichSandy calls 'Mulligan,' and I havefrequently told him so. Yet he insists uponserving it twice a day. He says it uses upthe scraps; but since it is never eaten, Icannot see wherein lies the economy."

"Well, I'd can him and hunt up a freshone," Billy repeated emphatically, lookingwith disapproval into his cup.

"I will say that I have already taken stepstoward getting one on whom I believe Ican depend," said Dill, and turned thesubject.

That was the only warning Billy had of

what was to come. Indeed, there wasnothing in the conversation to prepare himeven in the slightest degree for whathappened when he galloped up to thecorral late one afternoon in October. Itwas the season of frosty mornings and oflanguorous, smoke-veiled afternoons,when summer has grown weary ofresistance and winter is growing bolder inhis advances, and the two have met in apassion-warmed embrace. Billy hadridden far with his riders and the trailingwagons, in the zest of his youngresponsibility sweeping the range to itsfarthest boundary of river or mountain.They were not through yet, but they hadswung back within riding distance of thehome ranch and Billy had come in fornearly a month's accumulation of mail and

to see how Dill was getting on.

He was tired and dusty and hungry enoughto eat the fringes off his chaps. He came tothe ground without any spring to hismuscles and walked stiffly to the stabledoor, leading his horse by the bridle reins.He meant to turn him loose in the stable,which was likely to be empty, and shut thedoor upon him until he himself had eatensomething. The door was open and hewent in unthinkingly, seeing nothing in thegloom. It was his horse which snorted andsettled back on the reins and otherwiseprofessed his reluctance to enter the place.

Charming Billy, as was consistent with hishunger and his weariness and the generalmood of him, "cussed" rather fluently and

jerked the horse forward a step or twobefore he saw some one poisedhesitatingly upon the manger in the neareststall.

"I guess he's afraid of me," ventured avoice that he felt to his toes. "I washunting eggs. They lay them always in theawkwardest places to get at." Shescrambled down and came toward him,bareheaded, with the sleeves of her blue-and-white striped dress rolled to herelbows—Flora Bridger, if you please.

Billy stood still and stared, trying to makethe reality of her presence seemreasonable; and he failed utterly. His mostcoherent thought at that moment was ashamed remembrance of the way he had

sworn at his horse.

Miss Bridger stood aside from the wild-eyed animal and smiled upon his master."In the language of the range, 'come alive,'Mr. Boyle," she told him. "Say how-de-doand be nice about it, or I'll see that yourcoffee is muddy and your bread burnedand your steak absolutely impregnable;because I'm here to stay, mind you. MamaJoy and I have possession of your kitchen,and so you'd better—"

"I'm just trying to let it soak into mybrains," said Billy. "You're just about thelast person on earth I'd expect to see here,hunting eggs like you had a right—"

"I have a right," she asserted. "Your Dilly

—he's a perfect love, and I told him so—said I was to make myself perfectly athome. So I have a perfect right to be here,and a perfect right to hunt eggs; and if Icould make that sentence more 'perfect,' Iwould do it." She tilted her head to oneside and challenged a laugh with her eyes.

Charming Billy relaxed a bit, yanked thehorse into a stall and tied him fast. "Yuhmight tell me how it happened that you'rehere," he hinted, looking at her over thesaddle. He had apparently forgotten thathe had intended leaving the horse saddleduntil he had rested and eaten—and truly itwould be a shame to hurry from sounexpected a tête-à-tête.

Miss Bridger pulled a spear of blue-joint

hay from a crack in the wall and beganbreaking it into tiny pieces. "It soundsfunny, but Mr. Dill bought father out to geta cook. The way it was, father has beensimply crazy to try his luck up inKlondyke; it's just like him to get the feverafter everybody else has had it andrecovered. When the whole country waswild to go he turned up his nose at theidea. And now, mind you, after one or twowhom he knew came back with somegold, he must go and dig up a few milliontons of it for himself! Your Dilly is ratherbright, do you know? He met father andheard all about his complaint—how he'dgo to the Klondyke in a minute if he couldonly get the ranch and Mama Joy and meoff his hands—so what does Dilly do butbuy the old ranch and hire Mama Joy and

me to come here and keep house! Father, Iam ashamed to say, was abjectly gratefulto get rid of his incumbrances, and he—hehit the trail immediately." She stopped andsearched absently with her fingers foranother spear of hay.

"Do you know, Mr. Boyle, I think men arethe most irresponsible creatures! Awoman wouldn't turn her family over to aneighbor and go off like that for three orfour years, just chasing a sunbeam. I—I'mhorribly disappointed in father. A man hasno right to a family when he putseverything else first in his mind. He'll begone three or four years, and will spendall he has, and we—can shift forourselves. He only left us a hundreddollars, to use in an emergency! He was

afraid he might need the rest to buy out aclaim or get machinery or something. So ifwe don't like it here we'll have to stay,anyway. We—we're 'up against it,' as youfellows say."

Charming Billy, fumbling the latigoabsently, felt a sudden belligerencetoward her father. "He ought to have hishead punched good and plenty!" he blurtedsympathetically.

To his amazement Miss Bridger drewherself up and started for the door. "I'mvery sorry you don't like the idea of usbeing here, Mr. Boyle," she repliedcoldly, "but we happen to be here, and I'mafraid you'll just have to make the best ofit!"

Billy was at that moment pulling off thesaddle. By the time he had carried it fromthe stall, hung it upon its accustomed spikeand hurried to the door, Miss Bridger wasnowhere to be seen. He said "Hell!" under

his breath, and took long steps to thehouse, but she did not appear to be there.It was "Mama Joy," yellow-haired,extremely blue-eyed, and full-figured,who made his coffee and gave himdelicious things to eat—things which hefailed properly to appreciate, because heate with his ears perked to catch thefaintest sound of another woman's stepsand with his eyes turning constantly fromdoor to window. He did not even knowhalf the time what Mama Joy was saying,or see her dimples when she smiled; andMama Joy was rather proud of herdimples and was not accustomed to havingthem overlooked.

He was too proud to ask, at supper time,where Miss Bridger was. She did not

choose to give him sight of her, and so hetalked and talked to Dill, and even toMama Joy, hoping that Miss Bridger couldhear him and know that he wasn'tworrying a darned bit. He did notconsider that he had said anything soterrible. What had she gone on like thatabout her father for, if she couldn't standfor any one siding in with her? Maybe hehad put his sympathy a little too strong, butthat is the way men handle each other. Sheought to know he wasn't sorry she wasthere. Why, of course she knew that! Thegirl wasn't a fool, and she must know afellow would be plumb tickled to have heraround every day. Well, anyway, hewasn't going to begin by letting her leadhim around by the nose, and he wasn'tgoing to crumple down on his knees and

tell her to please walk all over him.

"Well, anyway," he summed up at bedtimewith a somewhat doubtful satisfaction, "Iguess she's kinda got over the notion thatI'm so blame comfortable—like I was anold grandpa-setting-in-the-corner. She'sgot to get over it, by thunder! I ain't got tothat point yet; hell, no! I should say Ihadn't!"

It is a fact that when he rode away justafter sunrise next morning (he would havegiven much if duty and his pride hadpermitted him to linger a while) no onecould have accused him of being in anydegree a comfortable young man. For hislast sight of Miss Bridger had been theflutter of her when she disappeared

through the stable door.

CHAPTER XIII.

Billy Meets the Pilgrim.

The weeks that followed did not pass asquickly as before for Billy Boyle, nor didraking the range with his riders bring quiteas keen a satisfaction with life. Always,when he rode apart in the soft haze andwatched the sky-line shimmer and dancetoward him and then retreat like a teasingmaid, his thoughts wandered from therange and the cattle and the men who rodeat his bidding and rested with one slimyoung woman who puzzled and tantalizedhim and caused him more mental

discomfort than he had ever known in hislife before that night when she entered sounexpectedly the line-camp and his life.He scarcely knew just how he did feeltoward her; sometimes he hungered for herwith every physical and mental fibre andwas tempted to leave everything and go toher. Times there were when he resenteddeeply her treatment of him and repeatedto himself the resolution not to lie downand let her walk all over him just becausehe liked her.

When the round-up was over and the lastof the beef on the way to Chicago, and thefat Irish cook gathered up the reins of hisfour-horse team, mounted with a grunt tothe high seat of the mess wagon andpointed his leaders thankfully into the trail

which led to the Double-Crank, though thesky was a hard gray and the wind blewchill with the bite of winter and thoughtiny snowflakes drifted aimlessly to earthwith a quite deceitful innocence, as if theyknew nothing of more to come and wereonly idling through the air, the blood ofCharming Billy rioted warmly through hisveins and his voice had a lilt which it hadlong lacked and he sang again the pitifullyfoolish thing with which he was wont tovoice his joy in living.

"I have been to see my wife,She's the joy of my life,She's a young thing, and cannot leave her

mother!"

"Thought Bill had got too proud t' sing that

song uh hisn," the cook yelled facetiouslyto the riders who were nearest. "I waslookin' for him to bust out in grand-opry,or something else that's a heap morestylish than his old come-all-ye."

Charming Billy turned and rested a handbriefly upon the cantle while he told thecook laughingly to go to the hot place, andthen settled himself to the pace thatmatched the leaping blood of him. Thatpace soon discouraged the others and leftthem jogging leisurely a mile or two in therear, and it also brought him the sooner tohis destination.

"Wonder if she's mad yet," he askedhimself, when he dismounted. No oneseemed to be about, but he reflected that it

was just about noon and they wouldprobably be at dinner—and, besides, theweather was not the sort to invite oneoutdoors unless driven by necessity.

The smell of roast meat, coffee and somesort of pie assailed his nostrils pleasantlywhen he came to the house, and he went ineagerly by the door which would bringhim directly to the dining room. As he hadguessed, they were seated at the table."Why, come in, William," Dill greeted, awelcoming note in his voice. "We weren'tlooking for you, but you are in good time.We've only just begun."

"How do you do, Mr. Boyle?" MissBridger added demurely.

"Hello, Bill! How're yuh coming?" criedanother, and it was to him that the eyes ofBilly Boyle turned bewilderedly. That thePilgrim should be seated calmly at theDouble-Crank table never once occurredto him. In his thoughts of Miss Bridger hehad mentally eliminated the Pilgrim; forhad she not been particular to show thePilgrim that his presence was extremelyundesirable, that night at the dance?

"Hello, folks!" he answered them allquietly, because there was nothing elsethat he could do until he had time to think.Miss Bridger had risen and was smiling athim in friendly fashion, exactly as if shehad never run away from him and stayedaway all the evening because she wasangry.

"I'll fix you a place," she announcedbriskly. "Of course you're hungry. And ifyou want to wash off the dust of travel,there's plenty of warm water out here inthe kitchen. I'll get you some."

She may not have meant that for aninvitation, but Billy followed her into thekitchen and calmly shut the door behindhim. She dipped warm water out of thereservoir for him and hung a fresh towelon the nail above the washstand in thecorner, and seemed about to leave himagain.

"Yuh mad yet?" asked Billy, because hewanted to keep her there.

"Mad? Why?" She opened her eyes at him.

"Not as much as you look," she retortedthen. "You look as cross as if—"

"What's the Pilgrim doing here?" Billydemanded suddenly and untactfully.

"Who? Mr. Walland?" She went into thepantry and came back with a plate for him."Why, nothing; he's just visiting. It'sSunday, you know."

"Oh—is it?" Billy bent over the basin,hiding his face from her. "I didn't know;I'd kinda lost count uh the days."Whereupon he made a great splashing inhis corner and let her go without morewords, feeling more than ever that heneeded time to think. "Just visiting—'cause it's Sunday, eh? The dickens it

is!" Meditating deeply, he was verydeliberate in combing his hair and settlinghis blue tie and shaking the dust out of hiswhite silk neckerchief and retying it in aloose knot; so deliberate that Mama Joywas constrained to call out to him: "Yourdinner is getting cold, Mr. Boyle," beforehe went in and took his seat where MissBridger had placed him—and he doubtedmuch her innocence in the matter—elbowto elbow with the Pilgrim.

"How's shipping coming on, Billy?"inquired the Pilgrim easily, passing to himthe platter of roast beef. "Most through,ain't yuh?"

"The outfit's on the way in," answeredBilly, accepting noncommittally the meat

and the overture for peace. "They'll behere in less than an hour."

If the Pilgrim wanted peace, he wasthinking rapidly, what grounds had he forignoring the truce? He himself had beenthe aggressor and he also had been thevictor. According to the honor of fightingmen, he should be generous. And when allwas said and done—and the thoughtgalled Billy more than he couldunderstand—the offense of the Pilgrim hadbeen extremely intangible; it had consistedalmost wholly of looks and a tone or two,and he realized quite plainly that his owndislike of the Pilgrim had probablycolored his judgment. Anyway, he hadthrashed the Pilgrim and driven him awayfrom camp and killed his dog. Wasn't that

enough? And if the Pilgrim chose to forgetthe unpleasant circumstances of theirparting and be friends, what could he dobut forget also? Especially since the girldid not appear to be holding any grudgefor what had passed between them in theline-camp. Billy, buttering a biscuit withmuch care, wished he knew just what hadhappened that night before he opened thedoor, and wondered if he dared ask her.

Under all his thoughts and through all hehated the Pilgrim, his bold blue eyes, hisfull, smiling lips and smooth cheeks, as hehad never hated him before; and he hatedhimself because, being unable to accounteven to himself for his feelings toward thePilgrim, he was obliged to hide his hateand be friends—or else act the fool. And

above all the mental turmoil he wassomehow talking and listening andlaughing now and then, as if there weretwo of him and each one was occupiedwith his own affairs. "I wisht to thunderthere was three uh me," he thoughtfleetingly during a pause. "I'd set the thirdone uh me to figuring out just where thegirl stands in this game, and what she'sthinking about right now. There's a kindatwinkling in her eyes, now and then whenshe looks over here, that sure don't line upwith her innocent talk. I wisht I couldmind-read her—

"Yes, we didn't get through none too soon.Looks a lot like we're going to get our firstslice uh winter. We've been playing bigluck that we didn't get it before now; and

that last bunch uh beef was sure rollickyand hard to handle—we'd uh had a picnicwith all the trimmings if a blizzard hadcaught us with them on our hands. As it is,we're all dead on our feet. I expect tosleep about four days without stopping formeals, if you ask me."

One cannot wonder that Charming Billyheard thankfully the clatter of his outfitarriving, or that he left half his piece ofpie uneaten and hurried off, on the pleathat he must show them what to do—which would have caused a snicker amongthe men if they had overheard him. He didnot mind Dill following him out, nor didhe greatly mind the Pilgrim remaining inthe house with Miss Bridger. The relief ofbeing even temporarily free from the

perplexities of the situation mastered allelse and sent him whistling down the pathto the stables.

CHAPTER XIV.

A Winter at the Double-Crank.

There are times when, although the monthsas they pass seem full, nothing that hasoccurred serves to mark a step forward orback in the destiny of man. After a year,those months of petty detail might bewiped out entirely without changing thegeneral trend of events—and such a timewas the winter that saw "Dill and Bill," asone alliterative mind called them, inpossession of the Double-Crank. Theaffairs of the ranch moved smoothly alongtoward a more systematic running than had

been employed under Brown's ownership.Dill settled more and more into the newlife, so that he was so longer looked uponas a foreign element; he could discusspractical ranch business and be sure of hisground—and it was then that Billyrealized more fully how shrewd a brainlay behind those mild, melancholy blueeyes, and how much a part of the man wasthat integrity which could not stoop tosmall meanness or deceit. It would havebeen satisfying merely to know that such aman lived, and if Billy had needed anyone to point the way to square living hemust certainly have been better for thecompanionship of Dill.

As to Miss Bridger, he stood upon muchthe same footing with her as he had in the

fall, except that he called her Flora, in thefamiliarity which comes of dailyassociation; to his secret discomfort shehad fulfilled her own prophecy and calledhim Billy Boy. Though he liked thefamiliarity, he emphatically did not likethe mental attitude which permitted her tofall so easily into the habit of calling himthat. Also, he was in two minds about theway she would come to the door of theliving room and say: "Come, Billy Boy,and dry the dishes for me—that's a goodkid!"

Billy had no objections to drying thedishes; of a truth, although that had been aduty which he shirked systematically inline-camps until everything in the cabinwas in that state which compels action, he

would have been willing to stand besideFlora Bridger at the sink and wipe dishes(and watch her bare, white arms, with thedimply elbows) from dark until dawn.What he did object to was the half-patronizing, wholly matter-of-fact tone ofher, which seemed to preclude anypossibility of sentiment so far as she wasconcerned. She always looked at him sofrankly, with never a tinge of red in hercheeks to betray that consciousness of sexwhich goes ever—say what you like—with the love of a man and a maid.

He did not want her to call him "BillyBoy" in just that tone; it made him feelsmall and ineffective and young—he whowas eight or nine years older than she! Itput him down, so that he could not bring

himself to making actual love to her—andonce or twice when he had tried it, shetook it as a great joke.

Still, it was good to have her there and tobe friends. The absence of the Pilgrim,who had gone East quite suddenly soonafter the round-up was over, and thegenerosity of the other fellows, who sawquite plainly how it was—with Billy, atleast—and forbore making any advanceson their own account, made the winterpass easily and left Charming Billy in thespring not content, perhaps, but hopeful.

It was in the warm days of late April—thedays which bring the birds and the tender,young grass, when the air is soft and alloutdoors beckons one to come out and

revel. On such a day Billy, stirred to anindefinable elation because the world ashe saw it then was altogether good,crooned his pet song while he waited atthe porch with Flora's horse and his own.They were going to ride together becauseit was Sunday and because, if the weatherheld to its past and present mood of sweetserenity, he might feel impelled to start thewagons out before the week was done; sothat this might be their last Sunday ride fornobody knew how long.

"Let's ride up the creek," she suggestedwhen she was in the saddle. "We haven'tbeen up that way this spring. There's atrail, isn't there?"

"Sure, there's a trail—but I don't know

what shape it's in. I haven't been over itmyself for a month or so. We'll try it, butyuh won't find much to see; it's all levelcreek-bottom for miles and kindamonotonous to look at."

"Well, we'll go, anyway," she decided,and they turned their horses' heads towardthe west.

They had gone perhaps five or six milesand were thinking of turning back, whenBilly found cause to revise his statementthat there was nothing to see. There hadbeen nothing when he rode this waybefore, but now, when they turned tofollow a bend in the creek and in the trail,they came upon a camp which lookedmore permanent than was usual in that

country. A few men were lounging aroundin the sun, and there were scrapers of thewheeled variety, and wagons, and plows,and divers other implements of toil thatwere strange to the place. Also there wasa long, reddish-yellow ridge branching outfrom the creek; Billy knew it for a ditch—but a ditch larger than he had seen formany a day. He did not say anything, evenwhen Flora exclaimed over the surprise offinding a camp there, but headed straightfor the camp.

When they came within speaking distance,a man showed in the opening of one of thetents, looked at them a moment, and cameforward.

"Why, that's Fred Walland!" cried Flora,

and then caught herself suddenly. "I didn'tknow he was back," she added, in a tonemuch less eager.

Billy gave her a quick look that mighthave told her much had she seen it. He didnot much like the color which had flaredinto her cheeks at sight of the Pilgrim, andhe liked still less the tone in which shespoke his name. It was not much, and hehad the sense to push the little devil ofjealousy out of sight behind him, but it hadcome and changed something in the heartof Billy.

"Why, hello!" greeted the Pilgrim, andBilly remembered keenly that the Pilgrimhad spoken in just that way when he hadopened the door of the line-camp upon

them, that night. "I was going to ride overto the ranch, after a while. How are yuh,anyhow?" He came and held up his handto Flora, and she put her own into it. Billy,with eyebrows pinched close, thought thatthey sure took their own time about lettinggo again, and that the smile which shegave the Pilgrim was quite superfluous tothe occasion.

"Yuh seem to be some busy over here," heremarked carelessly, turning his eyes tothe new ditch.

"Well, yes. Brown's having a ditch put inhere. We only started a few days ago;them da—them no-account Swedes he gotto do the rough work are so slow, we'reliable to be at it all summer. How's

everybody at the ranch? How's yourmother, Miss Bridger? Has she got anymince pies baked?"

"I don't know—you might ride over withus and see," she invited, smiling at himagain. "We were just going to turn back—weren't we, Billy Boy?"

"Sure!" he testified, and for the first timefound some comfort in being called BillyBoy; because, if looks went for anything,it certainly made the Pilgrim veryuncomfortable. The spirits of Billy rose alittle.

"If you'll wait till I saddle up, I'll goalong. I guess the Svenskies won't run offwith the camp before I get back," said the

Pilgrim, and so they stayed, and afterwardrode back together quite amiablyconsidering certain explosive elements inthe party.

Perhaps Billy's mildness was due in agreat measure to his preoccupation, whichmade him deaf at times to what the otherswere saying. He knew that they were quiteimpersonal in their talk, and so he driftedinto certain other channels of thought.

Was Brown going to start another cow-outfit, or was he merely going to try hishand at farming? Billy knew that—unlesshe had sold it—Brown owned a fewhundred acres along the creek there; andas he rode over it now he observed thesoil more closely than was his habit, and

saw that, from a passing survey, it seemedfertile and free from either adobe oralkali. It must be that Brown was going totry ranching. Still, he had held out all hisbest stock, and Billy had not heard that hehad sold it since. Now that he thought ofit, he had not heard much about Brownsince Dill bought the Double-Crank.Brown had been away, and, though he hadknown in a general way that the Pilgrimwas still in his employ, he did not know inwhat capacity. In the absorption of hisown affairs he had not given the matterany thought, though he had wondered atfirst what crazy impulse caused Brown tosell the Double-Crank. Even now he didnot know, and when he thought of it thething irritated him like a puzzle before it issolved.

So greatly did the matter trouble him thatimmediately upon reaching the ranch heleft Flora and the Pilgrim and hunted upDill. He found him hunched like a half-open jackknife in a cane rocker, with hislegs crossed and one long, lean footdangling loosely before him; he wasreading "The Essays of Elia," and themelancholy of his face gave Billy theerroneous impression that the book wasextremely sad, and caused him to dislike itwithout ever looking inside the dingy bluecovers.

"Say, Dilly, old Brown's putting in a ditchbig enough to carry the whole MissouriRiver. Did yuh know it?"

Dill carefully creased down the corner of

the page where he was reading, untangledhis legs and pulled himself up a bit in thechair. "Why, no, I don't think I have heardof it," he admitted. "If I have it must haveslipped my mind—which isn't likely." Dillwas rather proud of his capacity forkeeping a mental grasp on things.

"Well, he's got a bunch uh men camped upthe creek and the Pilgrim to close-herd'em—and I'm busy wondering what he'sgoing to do with that ditch. Brown don'tdo things just to amuse himself; yuh cangamble he aims to make that ditch packdollars into his jeans—and if yuh can tellme how, I'll be a whole lot obliged." Dillshook his head, and Billy went on. "Didyuh happen to find out, when yuh wasbargaining for the Double-Crank, how

much land Brown's got held out?"

"No-o—I can't say I did. From certainremarks he made, I was under theimpression that he owns quite a tract. Iasked about getting all the land he had,and he said he preferred not to put a priceon it, but that it would add considerably tothe sum total. He said I would not need it,anyhow, as there is plenty of open rangefor the stock. He was holding it, he toldme, for speculation and had never madeany use of it in running his stock, except asthey grazed upon it."

"Uh-huh. That don't sound to me like anyforty-acre field; does it to you?"

"As I said," responded Dill, "I arrived at

the conclusion that he owns a good deal ofland."

"And I'll bet yuh the old skunk is going tostart up a cow-outfit right under our noses—though why the dickens the Double-Crank wasn't good enough for him getsme."

"If he does," Dill observed calmly, "theman has a perfect right to do so, William.We must guard against that greed whichwould crowd out every one but ourselves—like pigs around a trough of sour milk! Iwill own, however—"

"Say, Dilly! On the dead, are yuhreligious?"

"No, William, I am not, in the sense youmean. I hope, however, that I am honest. IfMr. Brown intends to raise cattle again Ishall be glad to see him succeed."

Charming Billy sat down suddenly, asthough his legs would no longer supporthim, and looked queerly at Dill. "Hell!" hesaid meditatively, and sought with hisfingers for his smoking material.

Dill showed symptoms of going back to"The Essays of Elia," so that Billy wasstirred to speech.

"Now, looky here, Dilly. You're all right,as far as yuh go—but this range is carryingjust about all the stock it needs right atpresent. I don't reckon yuh realize that all

the good bottoms and big coulées aregetting filled up with nesters; one here andone there, and every year a few more. Itain't much, uh course, but every man thatcomes is cutting down the range just thatmuch. And I know one thing: when Brownhad this outfit himself he was mightyjealous uh the range, and he didn't takenone to the idea of anybody else shovingstock onto it more than naturally drifted onin the course uh the season. If he's going tostart another cow-outfit, I'll bet yuh he'sgoing to gobble land—and that's what webetter do, and do it sudden."

"Since I have never had much personalexperience in the 'gobbling' line, I'mafraid you'll have to explain," said Dilldryly.

"I mean leasing. We got to beat Brown toit. We got to start in and lease up all theland we can get our claws on. I ain't nonedesirable uh trying to make yuh amillionaire, Dilly, whilst we've only gotone lone section uh land and about twelvethousand head uh stock, and somebodyelse aiming to throw a big lot uh cattleonto our range. I kinda shy at any contractthe size uh that one. I've got to start thewagons out, if this weather holds good,and I want to go with 'em—for a while,anyhow—and see how things stack up onthe range. And what you've got to do is togo and lease every foot uh land you can.Eh? State land. All the land around herealmost is State land—all that's surveyedand that ain't held by private owners. AndState land can be leased for a term uh

years.

"The way they do it, yuh start in and goover the map all samee flea; yuh lease asection here and there and skip one andtake the next, and so on, and then if yuhneed to yuh throw a fence around thewhole blame chunk—and there yuh are.No, it ain't cheating, because if anybodydon't like it real bad, they can raise thelong howl and make yuh revise yourfencing; but in this neck uh the woodsfolks don't howl over a little thing likethat, because you could lift up your ownvoice over something they've done, andthere'd be a fine, pretty chorus! So that'swhat yuh can do if yuh want to—butanyway, yuh want to get right after thatleasing. It'll cost yuh something, but we're

just plumb obliged to protect ourselves.See?"

At that point he heard Flora laugh, and gotup hastily, remembering the presence ofthe Pilgrim on the ranch.

"I see, and I will think it over and takewhat precautionary measures arenecessary and possible."

Billy, not quite sure that he hadsufficiently impressed Dill with theimportance of the matter, turned at thedoor and looked in again, meaning to addan emphatic word or two; but when hesaw that Dill was staring round-eyed atnothing at all, and that Lamb was lyingsprawled wide open on the floor, his face

relaxed from its anxious determination.

"I got his think-works going—he'll do therest," he told himself satisfiedly, andpushed the subject from him. Just now hewanted to make sure the Pilgrim wasn'tgetting more smiles than were coming tohim—and if you had left the decision ofthat with Billy, the Pilgrim would havehad none at all.

"I wisht he'd do something I could lay myfinger on—damn him," he reflected. "Ican't kick him out on the strength uh myown private opinion. I'd just simply laymyself wide open to all kinds uh remarks.I ain't jealous; he ain't got any particularstand-in with Flora—but if I started actionon him, that's what the general verdict

would be. Oh, thunder!"

Nothing of his thoughts showed in hismanner when he went out to where theywere. He found them just putting up atarget made of a sheet of tablet papermarked with a lead pencil into rings andan uncertain centre, and he went straightinto the game with a smile. He loaded thegun for Flora, showed her exactly how to"draw a fine bead," and otherwisedeported himself in a way not calculatedto be pleasing to the Pilgrim. He calledher Flora boldly whenever occasionoffered, and he exulted inwardly at theproprietary way in which she said "BillyBoy" and ordered him around. Of course,he knew quite well that there was nothingbut frank-eyed friendship back of it all;

but the Pilgrim plainly did not know andwas a good deal inclined to sulk over hisinterpretation.

So Billy, when came the time for sleeping,grinned in the dark of his room and dweltwith much satisfaction upon the manner ofthe Pilgrim's departure. He prophesiedoptimistically that he guessed that wouldhold the Pilgrim for a while, and that hehimself could go on round-up and notworry any over what was happening at theranch.

For the Pilgrim had come into the kitchen,ostensibly for a drink of water, and hadfound Miss Flora fussily adjusting theKlondyke nugget pin in the tie of CharmingBilly, as is the way of women when they

know they may bully a man with impunity—and she was saying: "Now, Billy Boy,if you don't learn to stick that pin instraight and not have the point standing outa foot, I'll—" That is where the Pilgrimcame in and interrupted. And he chokedover the dipper of water even as Billychoked over his glee, and left the ranchwithin fifteen minutes and rode, as Billyobserved to the girl, "with a haughtyspine."

"Oh, joy!" chuckled Billy when he livedthose minutes over again, and punched thepillow facetiously. "Oh, joy, ohJohnathan! I guess maybe he didn't get ajolt, huh? And the way—the very tonewhen I called her Flora—sounded like theday was set for the wedding and we'd

gone and ordered the furniture!"

The mood of him was still triumphantthree days after when he turned in hissaddle and waved his hand to Flora, whowaved wistfully back at him. "It ain't anycinch right now—but I'll have her yet," hecheered himself when the twinge ofparting was keenest.

CHAPTER XV.

The Shadow Falls Lightly.

Over the green uplands, into the couléesand the brushy creek-bottoms swept thesun-browned riders of the Double-Crank;jangling and rattling over untrailed prairiesod, the bed and mess wagons followedafter with hasty camping at the placesBilly appointed for brief sleeping andbriefer eating, a hastier repacking and thenthe hurry over the prairies to the next stop.Here, a wide coulée lay yawninglanguorously in the sunshine with agossipy trout stream for company; with

meadowlarks rippling melodiously frombush and weed or hunting worms and bugsfor their nestful of gaping mouths; withgophers trailing snakily through the tallgrasses; and out in the barren centre wherethe yellow earth was pimpled with littlemounds, plump-bodied prairie dogs sittingpertly upon their stubby tails the whilethey chittered shrewishly at the world; andover all a lazy, smiling sky with cloudsalways drifting and trailing shadowsacross the prairie-dog towns and thecoulée and the creek, and a soft windstirring the grasses.

Then the prairie dogs would stand a-tiptoeto listen. The meadowlarks would stoptheir singing—even the trailing shadowswould seem to waver uncertainly—and

only the creek would go gurgling on,uncaring. Around a bend would rattle thewagons of the Double-Crank, with a lonerider trotting before to point the way;down to the very bank of the uncaringcreek they would go. There would behurrying to and fro with much clamor ofwood-chopping, tent-raising and all thelittle man-made noises of camp life andcooking. There would be the addedclamor of the cavvy, and later, of tiredriders galloping heavily into the coulée,and of many voices upraised in full-tonedtalk with now and then a burst of laughter.

All these things, and the prairie folkhuddled trembling in their homes, a muteagony of fear racking their small bodies.Only the creek and the lazy, wide-mouthed

coulee and the trailing clouds and the softwind seemed not to mind.

Came another sunrise and with it theclamor, the voices, the rattle of ridinggear, the trampling. Then a final burst andrattle, a dying of sounds in the distance, asilence as the round-up swept on over therange-land, miles away to the nextcamping place. Then the little prairie folk—the gopher, the plump-bodied prairiedogs, the mice and the rabbits, wouldlisten long before they crept timidly out tosniff suspiciously the still-tainted air andinspect curiously and with instinctiveaversion the strange marks left on the earthto show that it was all something morethan a horrible nightmare.

So, under cloud and sun, when the windblew soft and when it raved over theshrinking land, when the cold rain drovemen into their yellow slickers and sethorses to humping backs and turning tail tothe drive of it and one heard the cookmuttering profanity because the wood waswet and the water ran down the stovepipeand hungry men must wait because thestove would not "draw," the Double-Crank raked the range. Horses grew leanand ill-fitting saddles worked theirwicked will upon backs that shrank totheir touch of a morning. Wild range cattlewere herded, a scared bunch ofrestlessness, during long, hot forenoons,or longer, hotter afternoons, while calvesthat had known no misfortune beyond awet back or a searching wind learned,

panic-stricken, the agony of capture andrough handling and tight-drawn ropes and,last and worst, the terrible, searing iron.

There were not so many of them—thesereluctant, wild-eyed pupils in the schoolof life. Charming Billy, sitting his horseand keeping tally of the victims in hisshabby little book, began to know thesinking of spirit that comes to a man whenhe finds that things have, after all, goneless smoothly than he had imagined. Therewere withered carcasses scattered throughthe coulée bottoms and upon side hills thathad some time made slippery climbing fora poor, weak cow. The loss was notcrippling, but it was greater than he hadexpected. He remembered certain bitingstorms which had hidden deep the grasses,

and certain short-lived chinooks that hadserved only to soften the surface of thesnow so that the cold, coming after, mightfreeze it the harder.

It had not been a hard winter, as wintersgo, but the loss of cows had been abovethe average and the crop of calves below,and Billy for the first time faced squarelythe fact that, in the cattle business as wellas in others, there are downs to match theups. In his castle building, and so far inhis realization of his dreams, he had nottaken much account of the downs.

Thus it was that, when they swung backfrom the reservation and camped for a dayupon lower Burnt Willow, he felt a greatyearning for the ranch and for sight of the

girl who lived there. For excuses he hadthe mail and the natural wish to consultwith Dill, so that, when he saddled Barneyand told Jim Bleeker to keep thingsmoving till to-morrow or the day after, hehad the comfortable inner assurance thatthere were no side-glances or smiles andno lowered lids when he rode away. ForCharming Billy, while he would havefaced the ridicule of a nation if that werethe price he must pay to win his deepdesire, was yet well pleased to go on hisway unwatched and unneeded.

Since the Double-Crank ranch lay withBurnt Willow Creek loitering through thewillows within easy gunshot of thecorrals, Billy's trail followed the creekexcept in its most irresponsible windings,

when he would simplify his journey bytaking straight as might be across theprairie. It was after he had done this forthe second time and had come down to thecreek through a narrow, yellow-claycoulee that he came out quite suddenlyupon a thing he had not before seen.

Across the creek, which at that point wasso narrow that a horse could all but clearit in a running jump, lay the hills, a far-reaching ocean of fertile green. Goodgrazing it was, as Billy well knew. Inanother day the Double-Crank riderswould be sweeping over it, gathering thecattle; at least, that had been his intent. Helooked across and his eyes settledimmediately upon a long, dotted linedrawn straight away to the south; at the far

end a tiny huddle of figures movedindeterminately, the details of theirbusiness blunted by the distance. ButCharming Billy, though he liked themlittle, knew well when he looked upon afence in the building. The dotted line heread for post holes and the distant figuresfor the diggers.

While his horse drank he eyed the linedistrustfully until he remembered hisparting advice to Dill. "Dilly's sure gettinga move on him," he decided, estimatingroughly the size of the tract which thatfence, when completed, would inclose. Tobe sure, it was pure guesswork, for hewas merely looking at one corner. Up thecreek he could not see, save a quarter mileor so to the next bend; even that distance

he could not see the dotted line—for hewas looking upon a level clothed withrank weeds and grass and small brush—but he knew it must be there. When heturned his horse from the water and wenthis way, his mind was no longer given upto idle dreaming of love words and a girl.This fencing business concerned himintimately, and his brain was as alert ashis eyes. For he had not meant that Dillyshould fence any land just yet.

Farther up the creek he crossed, meaningto take another short cut and so avoid along detour; also, he wanted to see justwhere and how far the fence went. Yes,the post holes were there, only here theyheld posts leaning loosely this way andthat like drunken men. A half mile farther

the wire was already strung, but not a mandid he see whom he might question—andwhen he glanced and saw that the sun wasalmost straight over his head and thatBarney's shadow scurried along nearlybeneath his stirrup, he knew that theywould be stopping for dinner. He climbeda hill and came plump upon a fence, wire-strung, wire-stayed, aggressively barringhis way.

"Dilly's about the most thorough-mindedman I ever met up with," he mused, halfannoyed, stopping a moment to surveycritically the barrier. "Yuh never find ajob uh hisn left with any loose ends a-dangling. He's got a fence here like he wasguarding a railroad right-uh-way. I guessI'll go round, this trip."

At the ranch Charming Billy took the paththat led to the kitchen, because when heglanced that way from the stable he caughta flicker of pink—a shade of pink whichhe liked very much, because Flora had adress of that color and it matched hercheeks, it seemed to him. She hadevidently not seen him, and he thought hewould surprise her. To that end, hesuddenly stopped midway and removedhis spurs lest their clanking betray him. Sohe went on, with his eyes alight and theblood of him jumping queerly.

Just outside the door he stopped, saw thepink flutter in the pantry and went acrossthe kitchen on his toes; sure, he was goingto surprise her a lot! Maybe, he thoughtdaringly, he'd kiss her—if his nerve

stayed with him long enough. He ratherthought it would. She was stooping a littleover the flour barrel, and her back wastoward him.

More daring than he would have believedof himself, he reached out his arms andcaught her to him, and—It was not Flora atall. It was Mama Joy.

"Oh, I—I beg your pardon—I—"stammered Billy helplessly.

"Billy! You're a bad boy; how youfrightened me!" she gasped, and showedan unmistakable inclination to snuggle.

Charming Billy, looking far morefrightened than she, pulled himself loose

and backed away. Mama Joy looked athim, and there was that in her eyes whichsent a qualm of something very likedisgust over Billy, so that in his toes hefelt the quiver.

"It was an accident, Mrs. Bridger," hesaid laconically, and went out hastily,leaving her standing there staring afterhim.

Outside, he twitched his shoulders as if hewould still free himself of somethingdistasteful. "Hell! What do I want withher?" he muttered indignantly, and did notstop to think where he was going until hebrought up at the stable. He had the reinsof Barney in his hand, and had put his footin the stirrup before he quite came to

himself. "Hell!" he exploded again, andled Barney back into the stall.

Charming Billy sat down on a box andbegan to build a smoke; his fingers shooka great deal, so that he sifted out twice asmuch tobacco as he needed. He felt utterlybewildered and ashamed and sorry, andhe could not think very clearly. He lightedthe cigarette, smoked it steadily, pinchedout the stub and rolled another before hecame back to anything like calm.

Even when he could bring himself to facewhat had happened and what it meant, hewinced mentally away from the subject.He could still feel the clinging pressure ofher round, bare arms against his neck, andhe once more gave his shoulders a twitch.

Three cigarettes he smoked, staring at awarped board in the stall partitionopposite him.

When the third was burned down to a veryshort stub he pinched out the fire, droppedthe stab to the dirt floor and deliberatelyset his foot upon it, grinding it into thedamp soil. It was as if he also set his footupon something else, so grimly intent wasthe look on his face.

"Hell!" he said for the third time, anddrew a long breath. "Well, this has got tostop right here!" He got up, took off his hatand inspected it gravely, redimpled thecrown, set it upon his head a trifle fartherback than usual, stuck his handsaggressively into his pockets and went

back to the house. This time he did not goto the kitchen but around to the frontporch, and he whistled shrilly the air ofhis own pet ditty that his arrival might beheralded before him.

Later, when he was sitting at the tableeating a hastily prepared dinner withMama Joy hovering near and seeming, tothe raw nerves of Billy, surrounded by anatmosphere of reproach and coyinvitation, he kept his eyes turned from herand ate rapidly that he might the soonerquit her presence. Flora was out ridingsomewhere, she told him when he asked.Dill came in and saved Billy from fleeingthe place before his hunger slept, andBilly felt justified in breathing easily andin looking elsewhere than at his plate.

"I see you've been getting busy with thebarbwire," he remarked, when he rosefrom the table and led the way out to theporch.

"Why, no. I haven't done any fencing at all,William," Dill disclaimed.

"Yuh haven't? Who's been fencing up allMontana south uh the creek, then?" Billyturned, a cigarette paper fluttering in hisfingers, and eyed Dill intently.

"I believe Mr. Brown is having somefencing done. Mr. Walland stopped hereto-day and said they were going to turn ina few head of cattle as soon as the fieldwas finished."

"The dickens they are!" Billy turned awayand sought a patch of shade where hemight sit on the edge of the porch and dighis heels into the soft dirt. He dugindustriously while he turned the matterover in his mind, then looked up a bitanxiously at Dill.

"Say, Dilly, yuh fixed up that leasingbusiness, didn't yuh?" he inquired. "Howmuch did yuh get hold of?"

Dill, towering to the very eaves of theporch, gazed down solemnly upon theother. "I'm afraid you will think it badnews, William. I did not lease an acre. Iwent, and I tried, but I discovered thatothers had been there before me. As youwould say, they beat me to it. Mr. Brown

leased all the land obtainable, as long agoas last fall."

Billy did not even say a word. He merelysnapped a match short off between histhumb and forefinger and ground thepieces into the dirt with his heel. Into thesunlight that had shone placidly upon thecastle he had builded in the air for Dilland for himself—yes, and for one other—crept a shadow that for the momentdimmed the whole.

"Say, Dilly, it's hell when things happenyuh haven't been looking for and can'thelp," he said at last, smiling a little. "I'dplumb got my sights raised to having a bigchunk uh Montana land under a Double-Crank lease, but I reckon they can come

down a notch. We'll come out on top—don't yuh worry none about that."

"I'm not worrying at all, William. I did notexpect to have everything come just as wewanted it; that, so far, has not been myexperience in business—or in love." Thelast two words, if one might judge fromthe direction of his glance, were meant aspure sympathy.

Billy colored a little under the brown."The calf-crop is running kinda short," heannounced hurriedly. "A lot uh cows diedoff last winter, and I noticed a good manyuh that young stock we shipped in laid 'emdown. I was hoping we wouldn't have totake any more jolts this season—butmaybe I've got more nerves than sense on

this land business. I sure do hate to seeold Brown cutting in the way he's doing—but if he just runs what cattle he can keepunder fence, it won't hurt us none."

"He's fencing a large tract, William—avery large tract. It takes in—"

"Oh, let up, Dilly! I don't want to knowhow big it is—not right now. I'm willingto take my dose uh bad medicine when it'stime for it—but I ain't none greedy aboutswallowing the whole bottle at once! Ifeel as if I'd got enough down me to do fora while."

"You are wiser than most people," Dillobserved dryly.

"Oh, sure. Say, if I don't see Flora—I'mgoing to hike back to camp pretty quick—you tell her I'm going to try and pull inclose enough to take in that dance atHardup, the Fourth. I heard there wasgoing to be one. We can't get through bythen, and I may not show up at the ranch,but I'll sure be at the dance. I—I'm in ahurry, and I've got to go right now." Whichhe did, and his going savored strongly offlight.

Dill, looking after him queerly, turned andsaw Mama Joy standing in the doorway.With eyes that betrayed her secret she,too, was looking after Billy.

"There is something more I wanted to sayto William," explained Dill quite

unnecessarily, and went striding down thepath after him. When he reached thestable, however, he did not have anythingin particular to say—or if he had, herefrained from disturbing Billy, who wasstretched out upon a pile of hay in one ofthe stalls.

"My hoss ain't through eating, yet," saidBilly, lifting his head like a turtle. "I'mgoing, pretty soon. I sure do love a pile uhfresh hay."

Their eyes met understandingly, and Dillshook his head.

"Too bad—too bad!" he said gravely.

CHAPTER XVI.

Self-defense.

The wagons of the Double-Crank hadstopped to tarry over the Fourth atFighting Wolf Spring, which bubbles fromunder a great rock in a narrow "draw" thatruns itself out to a cherry-masked pointhalfway up the side of Fighting WolfButte. Billy, with wisdom born of muchexperience in the ways of a round-up crewwhen the Fourth of July draws near,started his riders at day-dawn to rake allFighting Wolf on its southern side. "Bettercatch up your ridge-runners," he had

cautioned, "because I'll set yuh plumbafoot if yuh don't." The boys, knowingwell his meaning and that the circle thatday would be a big one over roughcountry, saddled their best horses andsettled themselves to a hard day's work.

Till near noon they rode, and brandedafter dinner to the tune of much scurryingand bawling and a great deal of dust andrank smoke, urged by the ever-present fearthat they would not finish in time. But theirleader was fully as anxious as they andhad timed the work so that by four o'clockthe herd was turned loose, the firesdrenched with water and the brandingirons put away.

At sundown the long slope from Fighting

Wolf Spring was dotted for a space withmen, fresh-shaven, clean-shirted andotherwise rehabilitated, galloping eagerlytoward Hardup fifteen miles away. Thatthey had been practically in the saddlesince dawn was a trifle not to beconsidered; they would dance untilanother dawn to make up for it.

Hardup, decked meagrely in the colorsthat spell patriotism, was unwontedlyalive and full of Fourth of July noises. Buteven with the distraction of a holiday anda dance just about to start and thesurrounding country emptied of humansinto the town, the clatter of the Double-Crank outfit—fifteen wiry young fellowshungry for play—brought men to the doorsand into the streets.

Charming Billy, because his eagernesswas spiced with expectancy, did not stopeven for a drink, but made for the hotel. Atthe hotel he learned that his "crowd" wasover at the hall, and there he hurried sosoon as he had removed the dust andstraightened his tie and brushed his hairand sworn at his upstanding scalp-lock, inthe corner of the hotel office dedicated topublic cleanliness.

It was a pity that such single-hearted effortmust go unrewarded, but the fact remainsthat he reached the hall just as the coupleswere promenading for the first waltz. Hewas permitted the doubtful pleasure of awelcoming nod from Flora as she went bywith the Pilgrim. Dill was on the floorwith Mama Joy, and at a glance he saw

how it was; the Pilgrim had "butted in"and come along with them. He supposedFlora really could not help it, but it waspretty hard lines, all the same. For even inthe range-land are certain rules ofetiquette which must be observed whenmen and women foregather in the pursuitof pleasure. Billy remembered ruefullyhow a girl must dance first, last, andoftenest with her partner of the evening,and must eat supper with him besides,whether she likes or not; to tweak this rulemeans to insult the man beyondforgiveness.

"Well, it wouldn't hurt me none if Floradid cut him off short," Billy concluded, hiseyes following them resentfully wheneverthey whirled down to his end of the room.

"The way I've got it framed up, I'd spokefor her first—if Dilly told her what Isaid."

Still, what he thought privately did notseem to have much effect upon realities.Flora he afterward saw intermittentlywhile they danced a quadrille together,and she made it plain that she had notconsidered Billy as her partner; howcould she, when he was trailing aroundover the country with the round-up, andnobody knew whether he would come ornot? No, Mr. Walland did not come to theranch so very often. She added naïvelythat he was awfully busy. He had ridden inwith them—and why not? Was there anyreason—

Billy, though he could think of reasons inplenty, turned just then to balance on thecorner and swing, and to do many othersenseless things at the behest of the manon the platform, so that when they stoodtogether again for a brief space, both werebreathless and she was anxiously feelingher hair and taking out side combs andputting them back again, and Billy feltdiffident about interrupting her and said nomore about who was her partner.

An hour or so later he was looking aboutfor her, meaning to dance with her again,when a man pushed him aside hurriedlyand went across the floor and spokeangrily to another. Billy, moving aside sothat he could see, discovered Florastanding up with the Pilgrim for the dance

in another "set" that was forming. The manwho had jostled him was speaking to themangrily, but Billy could not catch thewords.

"He's drunk," called the Pilgrim to thefloor manager. "Put him out!"

Several men left their places and rushedover to them. Because Flora was there andlikely to be involved, Billy reached themfirst.

"This was my dance!" the fellow wasexpostulating. "She promised it to me."

"Aw, he's drunk," repeated the Pilgrim,turning to Billy. "It's Gus Svenstrom. He'sgot it in for me because I fired him last

week. Throw him out! Miss Bridger isn'tgoing to dance with a drunken stiff likehim."

"Oh, I'll go—I ain't so drunk I've got to becarried!" retorted the other, and pushedhis way angrily through the crowd.

Flora had kept her place. Though the colorhad gone from her cheeks, she seemed tohave no intention of quitting the quadrille,so there was nothing for Billy to do but getoff the floor and leave her to her partner.He went out after the Swede, and, seeinghim headed for the saloon across from thehotel, followed aimlessly. He was notquite comfortable in the hall, anyway, forhe had caught Mama Joy eying himstrangely, and he thought she was

wondering why he had not asked her todance.

Charming Billy was not by nature adiplomat; it never once occurred to himthat he would better treat Mama Joy as ifthat half minute in the kitchen had neverbeen. He had said good evening to herwhen he first met her that evening, and heconsidered his duty done. He did not wantto dance with her, and that was, in hisopinion, an excellent reason for not doingso. He did not like to have her watchinghim with those big, round, blue eyes ofhers, so he stayed in the saloon for a whileand only left it to go to supper when someone said that the dance crowd was overthere. There might be some chance thatwould permit him to eat with Flora.

There are moments in a town when, evenwith many people coming and going, onemay look and see none. When Billy closedthe door of the saloon behind him andstarted across to the hotel, not a man didhe see, though there was sound in plentyfrom the saloons and the hotel and the hall.He was nearly half across the street whentwo men came into sight and met suddenlyjust outside a window of the hotel. Billy,in the gloom of starlight and no moon,could not tell who they were; he heard asharp sentence or two, saw them closetogether, heard a blow. Then they brokeapart and there was the flash of a shot.One man fell and the other whirled aboutas if he would run, but Billy was thenalmost upon them and the man turned backand stood looking down at the fallen

figure.

"Damn him, he pulled a knife on me!" hecried defensively. Billy saw that it wasthe Pilgrim.

"Who is he?" he asked, and knelt besidethe form. The man was lying just wherethe lamp-light streamed out from thewindow, but his face was in shadow. "Oh,it's that Swede," he added, and rose. "I'llget somebody; I believe he's dead." Heleft the Pilgrim standing there and hurriedto the door of the hotel office.

In any other locality a shot would havebrought on the run every man who heard it;but in a "cow-town," especially on adance night, shots are as common as

shouts. In Hardup that night there had beenperiodical outbursts which no one, noteven the women, minded in the least.

So it was not until Billy opened the door,put his head in, and cried: "Come alive! Afellow's been shot, right out here," thatthere was a stampede for the door.

The Pilgrim still stood beside the other,waiting. Three or four stooped over theman on the ground. Billy was one of them.

"He pulled a gun on me," explained thePilgrim. "I was trying to take it away fromhim, and it went off."

Billy stood up, and, as he did so, his footstruck against a revolver lying beside the

Swede. He looked at the Pilgrim queerly,but he did not say anything. They werelifting the Swede to carry him into theoffice; they knew that he was dead, evenbefore they got him into the light.

"Somebody better get word to thecoroner," said the Pilgrim, fighting forself-control. "It was self-defense. MyGod, boys, I couldn't help it! He pulled agun on me. Yuh saw it on the ground there,right where he dropped it."

Billy turned clear around and lookedagain at the Pilgrim, and the Pilgrim methis eyes defiantly before he turned away.

"I understood yuh to say it was a knife," heremarked slowly.

The Pilgrim swung back again. "I didn't—or, if I did, I was rattled. It was a gun—that gun on the ground. He met me thereand started a row and said he'd fix me. Hepulled his gun, and I made a grab for itand it went off. That's all there is to it."He stared hard at Billy.

There was much talk among the men, andseveral told how they had heard theSwede "cussing" Walland in the saloonthat evening. Some remembered threats—the threats which a man will foolishlymake when he is pouring whisky down histhroat by the glassful. No one seemed toblame Walland in the least, and Billy feltthat the Pilgrim was in a fair way tobecome something of a hero. It is notevery man who has the nerve to grab a gun

with which he is threatened.

They made a cursory search of the Pilgrimand found that he was not armed, and hewas given to understand that he would beexpected to stay around town until thecoroner came and "sat" on the case. But hewas treated to drinks right and left, andwhen Billy went to find Flora the Pilgrimwas leaning heavily upon the bar with aglass in his hand and his hat far back onhis head, declaiming to the crowd that hewas perfectly harmless so long as he wasleft alone. But he wasn't safe to monkeywith, and any man who came at himhunting trouble would sure get all hewanted and then some. He said he didn'tkill people if he could help it—but a manwas plumb obliged to, sometimes.

"I'm sure surprised to think I got off withm' life, last winter, when I hazed himaway from line-camp; I guess I must uhhad a close call, all right!" Billy snortedcontemptuously and shut the door upon thewordy revelation of the Pilgrim's deepinner nature which had been until thatnight carefully hidden from an admiringworld.

The dance stopped abruptly with thekilling; people were already going home.Billy, with the excuse that he would bewanted at the inquest, hunted up JimBleeker, gave him charge of the round-upfor a few days, and told him what route totake. For himself, he meant to ride homewith Flora or know the reason why.

"Come along, Dilly, and let's get out uhtown," he urged, when he had found him."It's a kinda small burg, and at the rate thePilgrim is swelling up over what he done,there won't be room for nobody but him inanother hour. He's making me plumbnervous and afraid to be around him, he'sso fatal."

"We'll go at once, William. Walland isdrinking a great deal more than he should,but I don't think he means to be boastfulover so unfortunate an affair. Do you thinkyou are taking an altogether unprejudicedview of the matter? Our judgment," headded deprecatingly, "is so apt to bewarped by our likes and dislikes."

"Well, if that was the case here," Billy

told him shortly, "I've got dislike enoughfor him to wind my judgment up like aclock spring. I'll go see if Flora and hermother are ready." In that way he avoideddiscussing the Pilgrim, for Dill was not sodull that he failed to take the hint.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Shadow Darkens.

The inquest resulted to the satisfaction ofthose who wished well to the Pilgrim, forit cleared him of all responsibility for thekilling. Gus Svenstrom had been drunk; hehad been heard to make threats; he hadbeen the aggressor in the trouble at thedance; and the Pilgrim, in the search menhad made immediately after the shooting,had been found unarmed. The case wasvery plainly one of self-defense.

Billy, when questioned, repeated the

Pilgrim's first words to him—that theSwede had pulled a knife; and told thejury, on further questioning, that he had notseen any gun on the ground until after hehad gone for help.

Walland explained satisfactorily to thejury. He may have said knife instead ofgun. He had heard some one say that theSwede carried a knife, and he had beenexpecting him to draw one. He was rattledat first and hardly knew what he did say.He did not remember saying it was aknife, but it was possible that he had doneso. As to Billy's not seeing any gun at first—they did not question the Pilgrim aboutthat, because Billy in his haste andexcitement could so easily overlook anobject on the ground. They gave a verdict

of self-defense without any discussion,and the Pilgrim continued to be somethingof a hero among his fellows.

Billy, as soon as the thing was over,mounted in not quite the best humor androde away to join his wagons. He had notridden to the Double-Crank to hear Floratalk incessantly of Mr. Walland, andrepeat many times the assertion that shedid not see how, under the circumstances,he could avoid killing the man. Nor had hegone to watch Mama Joy dimple andfrown by turns and give him sidelongglances which made him turn his headquickly away. He hated to admit tohimself how well he understood her. Hedid not want to be rude, but he had nodesire to flirt with her, and it made him

rage inwardly to realize how young andpretty she really was, and how, if it werenot for Flora, he might so easily betempted to meet her at least halfway. Shecould not be more than four or five yearsolder than Flora, and in her large, blondeway she was quite as alluring. Billywished profanely that she had gone toKlondyke with her husband, or thatBridger had known enough about womento stay at home with a wife as young asshe.

He was glad in his heart when came thetime to go. Maybe she would get over herfoolishness by the time he came in withthe round-up. At any rate, the combinationat the ranch did not tempt him to neglecthis business, and he galloped down the

trail without so much as looking back tosee if Flora would wave—possiblybecause he was afraid he might catch theflutter of a handkerchief in fingers otherthan hers.

It was when the round-up was on its wayin that Billy, stopping for an hour inHardup, met Dill in the post office.

"Why, hello, Dilly!" he cried, really gladto see the tall, lank form come shamblingin at the door. "I didn't expect to see yuhoff your own ranch. Anybody dead?" Itstruck him that Dill looked a shade moremelancholy than was usual, even for him.

"Why, no, William. Every one is well—very well indeed. I only rode in after the

mail and a few other things. I'm alwaysanxious for my papers and magazines, youknow. If you will wait for half an hour—you are going home, I take it?"

"That's where I'm sure headed, and we canride out together, easy as not. We'rethrough for a couple uh weeks or so, andI'm hazing the boys home to bust a fewhosses before we strike out again. I guessI'll just keep the camp running down by thecreek. Going to be in town long enough forme to play a game uh pool?"

"I was going right out again, but there's noparticular hurry," said Dill, looking overhis letters. "Were you going to play withsome one in particular?"

"No—just the first gazabo I could ropeand lead up to the table," Billy told him,sliding off the counter where he had beenperched.

"I wouldn't mind a game myself," Dillobserved, in his hesitating way.

In the end, however, they gave up the ideaand started for home; because two menwere already playing at the only table inHardup, and they were in no mind to waitindefinitely.

Outside the town, Dill turned gravely tothe other, "Did you say you were intendingto camp down by the creek, William?" heasked slowly.

"Why, yes. Anything against it?" Billy'seyes opened a bit wider that Dill shouldquestion so trivial a thing.

"Oh, no—nothing at all." Dill cleared histhroat raspingly. "Nothing at all—so longas there is any creek to camp beside."

"I reckon you've got something to back thatremark. Has the creek went and run offsomewhere?" Billy said, after a minute ofstaring.

"William, I have been feeling extremelyill at ease for the past week, and I havebeen very anxious for a talk with you.Eight days ago the creek suddenly ran dry—so dry that one could not fill a tindipper except in the holes. I observed it

about noon, when I led my horse down towater. I immediately saddled him androde up the creek to discover the cause."He stopped and looked at Billy steadily.

"Well, I reckon yuh found it," Billyprompted impatiently.

"I did. I followed the creek until I came tothe ditch Mr. Brown has been digging. Ifound that he had it finished and wasfilling it from the creek in order to test it. Ibelieve," he added dryly, "he found theresult very satisfying—to himself. Theditch carried the whole creek without anytrouble, and there was plenty of room atthe top for more!"

"Hell!" said Billy, just as Dill knew he

would say. "But he can't take out any morethan his water-right calls for," he added."Yuh got a water right along with theranch, didn't yuh say?"

"I got three—the third, fourth, and fifth. Ihave looked into the matter very closely inthe last week. I find that we can have allthe water there is—after Brown getsthrough. His rights are the first andsecond, and will cover all the water thecreek will carry, if he chooses to use themto the limit. I suspect he was looking forsome sort of protest from me, for he hadthe papers in his pocket and showed themto me. I afterward investigated, as I said,and found the case to be exactly as I havestated."

Billy stared long at his horse's ears."Well, he can't use the whole creek," hesaid at last, "not unless he just turned itloose to be mean, and I don't believe hecan waste water even if he does hold therights. We can mighty quick put a stop tothat. Do yuh know anything aboutinjunctions? If yuh don't, yuh betterinvestigate 'em a lot—because I don'tknow a damn' thing about the breed, andwe're liable to need 'em bad."

"I believe I may truthfully say that Iunderstand the uses—and misuses—ofinjunctions, William. In the East theylargely take the place of guns as fightingweapons, and I think I may say withoutboasting that I can hit the bull's-eye withthem as well as most men. But suppose

Mr. Brown uses the water? Suppose thereis none left to turn back into the creekchannel when he is through? He has alarge force of men at work running lateralsfrom the main ditch, which carries thewater up and over the high land, and I tookthe liberty of following his lines of stakes.As you would put it, William, he seemsabout to irrigate the whole of northernMontana; certainly his stakes cover thewhole creek bottom, both above andbelow the main ditch, and also the benchland above."

"Hell! Anything else?"

"I believe not—except that he hascompleted his fencing and has turned in alarge number of cattle. I say completed,

though strictly speaking he has not. He hascompleted the great field south of thecreek and east of us. But Mr. Walland wassaying that Brown intends to fence a tractto the north of us, either this fall or earlyin the spring. I know to a certainty that hehas a good many sections leased there. Itried to obtain some of it last spring andcould not." Into the voice of Dill had crepta note of discouragement.

"Well, don't yuh worry none, Dilly. I'mhere to see yuh pull out on top, and you'lldo it, too. You're a crackerjack when itcomes to the fine points uh business, and Isure savvy the range end uh the game, sobetween us we ought to make good, don'tyuh think? You just keep your eye onBrown, and if yuh can slap him in the face

with an injunction or anything, don't yuhget a sudden attack uh politeness and lethim slide. I'll look after the cow brutesmyself—and if I ain't good for it, after allthese years, I ought to be kicked plumb offthe earth. The time has gone by when wecould ride over there and haze his bunchclear out uh the country on a high lope,with our six guns backing our argument. Ikinda wish," he added pensively, "wehadn't got so damn' decent and law-abiding. We could get action a heap morespeedy and thorough with a dozen orfifteen buckaroos that liked to fight andhad lots uh shells and good hosses. Why, Icould have the old man's bunch shovelingdirt into that ditch to beat four aces, inabout fifteen minutes, if—"

"But, as you say," Dill cut in anxiously,"we are decent and law-abiding, and sucha procedure is quite out of the question."

"Aw, I ain't meditating no moonlightattack, Dilly—but the boys would surelove to do it if I told 'em to get busy, and Ireckon we could make a better job of itthan forty-nine injunctions and all kinds uhlaw sharps."

"Careful, William. I used to be a 'lawsharp' myself," protested Dill, pulling hisface into a smile. "And I must own I feelanxious over this irrigation project ofBrown's. He is going to work upon a largescale—a very large scale—for a privateranch. You have made it plain to me,William, how vitally important a wide,

unsettled country is to successful cattleraising; and since then I have thoughtdeeply upon the subject. I feel sure thatMr. Brown is not going to start a cattleranch."

"If he ain't, then what—"

"I am not prepared at present to make astatement, even to you, William. I neverenjoyed recanting. But one thing I may say.Mr. Brown has so far kept well within hislegal rights, and we have no possibleground for protest. So you see, perhapswe would better turn our entire attentionto our own affairs."

"Sure. I got plenty uh troubles uh myown," Billy agreed, more emphatically

than he intended.

Dill looked at him hesitatingly. "Mrs.Bridger," he observed slowly, "hasreceived news that her husband isseriously ill. There will not be anotherboat going north until spring, so that it willbe impossible for her to go to him. I amextremely sorry." Then, as if that statementseemed to him too bald, in view of the factthat they had never discussed Mama Joy,he added, "It is very hard for Flora. Theletter held out little hope of recovery."

Billy, though he turned a deep red andacquired three distinct creases betweenhis eyebrows, did not even make use ofhis favorite expletive. After a while hesaid irritably that a man was a damn fool

to go off like that and leave a wife—andfamily—behind him. He ought either tostay at home or take them with him.

He did not mean that he wished her fatherhad taken Flora to Klondyke, though heopenly implied that he wished Mama Joyhad gone. He knew he was inconsistent,but he also knew—and there was comfortas well as discomfort in the knowledge—that Dill understood him very well.

It seemed to Billy, in the short time thatthe round-up crew was camped by thecreek, that no situation could be moreintolerable than the one he must endure.He could not see Flora without havingMama Joy present also—or if he did findFlora alone, Mama Joy was sure to appear

very shortly. If he went near the housethere was no escaping her. And when heonce asked Flora to ride with him hestraightway discovered that Mama Joy haddeveloped a passion for riding and wentalong. Flora had only time to murmur arapid sentence or two while Mama Joywas hunting her gloves.

"Mama Joy has been taking the Ladies'Home Journal" she said ironically, "andshe has been converted to the idea that agirl must never be trusted alone with aman. I've acquired a chaperon now! Haveyou begun to study diplomacy yet, BillyBoy?"

"Does she chapyron yuh this fervent whenthe Pilgrim's the man?" countered Billy

resentfully.

He did not get an answer, because MamaJoy found her gloves too soon, but helearned his lesson and did not ask Flora toride with him again. Nevertheless, he triedsurreptitiously to let her know the reasonand so prevent any misunderstanding.

He knew that Flora was worrying over herfather, and he would like to have cheeredher all he could; but he had no desire tocheer Mama Joy as well—he would noteven give her credit for needing cheer. Sohe stayed away from them both and gavehis time wholly to the horse-breaking andto affairs in general, and ate and slept incamp to make his avoidance of the housecomplete.

Sometimes, of a night when he could notsleep, he wondered why it is that onenever day-dreams unpleasant obstaclesand disheartening failures into one's aircastles. Why was it that, just when it hadseemed to him that his dream wasmiraculously come true; when he foundhimself complete master of the Double-Crank where for years he had been merelyone of the men; when the One Girl wasalso settled indefinitely in the householdhe called his home; when he knew sheliked him, and had faith to believe hecould win her to something better thanfriendship—all these good things shouldbe enmeshed in a tangle of untowardcircumstances?

Why must he be compelled to worry over

the Double-Crank, that had always seemedto him a synonym for success? Why musthis first and only love affair be hamperedby an element so disturbing as Mama Joy?Why, when he had hazed the Pilgrim out ofhis sight—and as he supposed, out of hislife—must the man hover always in theimmediate background, threating the peaceof mind of Billy, who only wanted to beleft alone that he and his friends might liveunmolested in the air castle of hisbuilding?

One night, just before they were to startout again gathering beef for the shippingseason, Billy thought he had solved theproblem—philosophically, if notsatisfactorily. "I guess maybe it's just oneuh the laws uh nature that you're always

bumping into," he decided. "It's a lot likedraw-poker. Yah can't get dealt out to yuhthe cards yuh want, without getting somealong with 'em that yuh don't want. Whatgets me is, I don't see how in thunder I'mgoing to ditch m' discard. If I could justturn 'em face down on the table and count'em out uh the game—old Brown and hisfences and his darn ditch, and that dimplyblonde person and the Pilgrim—oh, hell!Wouldn't we rake in the stakes if I could?"

Straightway Billy found another elementadded to the list of disagreeables—or, tofollow his simile, another card was dealthim which he would like to havediscarded, but which he must keep in hishand and play with what skill he might. Hewas not the care-free Charming Billy

Boyle who had made prune pie for FloraBridger in the line-camp. He lookedolder, and there were chronic creasesbetween his eyebrows, and it was seldomthat he asked tunefully

"Can she make a punkin pie, Billy boy,Billy Boy?"

He had too much on his mind for singinganything.

It was when he had gathered the first trainload of big, rollicky steers for market andwas watching Jim Bleeker close thestockyard gate on the tail of the herd atTower, the nearest shipping point, that thedisagreeable element came in the personof Dill and the news he bore.

He rode up to where Billy, just inside thewing of the stockyards, was sittingslouched over with one foot out of thestirrup, making a cigarette. Dill did notlook so much the tenderfoot, these days.He sat his horse with more assurance, andhis face was brown and had that firm, hardlook which outdoor living brings.

"I looked for you in yesterday or the daybefore, William," he said, when Billy hadgreeted him with a friendly, "Hello,Dilly!" and one of his illuminating smiles.

"I'm ready to gamble old Brown has beenand gone and run the creek dry on yuhagain," bantered Billy, determined at thatmoment to turn his back on trouble.

"No, William, you would lose. The creekis running almost its normal volume ofwater. I dislike very much to interferewith your part of the business, William,but under present conditions I feeljustified in telling you that you must notship these cattle just now. I have beenwatching the market with some uneasinessfor a month. Beef has been decliningsteadily until now it ranges from two-ninety to three-sixty, and you will readilysee, William, that we cannot afford to shipat that figure. For various reasons I havenot obtruded business matters upon you,but I will now state that it is vitallyimportant that we realize enough from thebeef shipments to make our fall paymenton the mortgage and pay the interest on theremainder. It would be a great advantage

if we could also clear enough for the nextyear's running expenses. Have you anyidea how much beef there will be to shipthis fall?"

"I figured on sixty or seventy cars," saidBilly. Instinctively he had pulled himselfstraight in the saddle to meet this freshemergency.

Dill, with a pencil and an old letter fromhis pocket, was doing some rapid figuring."With beef so low, I fear I shall beobliged to ask you to hold this herd fortwo or three weeks. The price is sure torise later. It is merely a juggling operationamong the speculators and is not justifiedby the condition of the stock, or of themarket. In a couple of weeks the price

should be normal again."

"And in a couple uh weeks this bunchwould bring the lowest figure they name,"Billy asserted firmly. "Beef shrinks on thehoof like thunder when it's held up andclose-herded on poor range. What yuhbetter do, Dilly, is let me work this herdand ship just the top-notchers—they're allprime beef," he added regretfully,glancing through the fence at the millingherd. "I can cut out ten of twelve carsthat'll bring top price, and throw the restback on the range till we gather again. Yuhwon't lose as much that way as yuh wouldby holding up the whole works."

"Well," Dill hesitated, "perhaps you areright. I don't pretend to know anything

about this side of the business. To put thecase to you plainly, we must clear fortythousand dollars on our beef this fall, forthe mortgage alone—putting it in roundnumbers. We should also have tenthousand dollars for expenses, in order torun clear without adding to our liabilities.I rely upon you to help manage it. If youwould postpone any more gathering ofbeef until—"

"It's just about a case uh now or never,"Billy cut in. "There's only about so long togather beef before they begin to fall off inweight. Then we've got to round up thecalves and wean 'em, before cold weathersets in. We can't work much after snowfalls. We can pull through the first storm,all right, but when winter sets in we're

done. We've got to wean and feed all thecalves you've got hay for, and I can savesome loss by going careful and taking 'emaway from the poorest cows and leavingthe fat ones to winter their calves. Howmuch hay yuh got put up?"

"A little over five hundred tons on ourplace," said Dill. "And I sent a small crewover to the Bridger place; they have nearlya hundred tons there. You said for me togather every spear I could," he remindedhumorously, "and I obeyed to the best ofmy ability."

"Good shot, Dilly. I'll round up eight ornine hundred calves, then; that'll helpsome. Well, shall I cut the top off thisbunch uh beef, or throw the whole

business back on the range? You're thedoctor."

Dill rode close to the high fence, stood inhis stirrups and looked down upon themass of broad, sleek backs movingrestlessly in and out and around, with noaim but to seek some way of escape. Thebawling made speech difficult at anydistance, and the dust sent him coughingaway.

"I think, William," he said, when he wasagain beside Billy, "I shall leave thismatter to your own judgment. What I wantis to get every cent possible out of thebeef we ship; the details I am content toleave with you, for in my ignorance Ishould probably botch the job. I suppose

we can arrange it so that, in case themarket rises suddenly, you can rush in atrainload at short notice?"

"Give me two weeks to get action on therange stuff, and I can have a trainload onthe way to Chicago so quick it'll makeyour head whirl. I'll make it a point to beready on short notice. And before we pullout I'll give yuh a kinda programme uh thenext three or four weeks, so yuh can senda man out and he'll have some show uhfinding us. And I won't bring in anotherherd till you send word—only yuh want tobear in mind that I can't set out there on apinnacle till snow flies, waiting for pricesto raise in Chicago. Yuh don't want to losesight uh them nine hundred calves we'vegot to gather yet."

It was all well enough for Billy topromise largely and confidently, but hefailed to take into account one small detailover which he had no control. So perfectwas his system of gathering beef—and hegathered only the best, so as to catch thetop price—that when Dill's messagecame, short and hurried but punctiliouslyworded and perfectly punctuated, that beefhad raised to four-thirty and "Please rushshipment as per agreement," Billy had histrainload of beef in Tower, ready to loadjust three days after receiving notice. Buthere interfered the detail over which hehad no control. Dill had remembered toorder the cars, but shipping was heavy andcars were not to be had.

Two long, heartrending weeks they waited

just outside Tower, held there within easyreach—and upon mighty short feed for theherd—by the promises of the railroadmanagement and the daily assurance of theagent that the cars might be along at anytime within four hours. (He always saidfour hours, which was the schedule timefor fast freight between Tower and thedivision point.) Two long weeks, whilefrom the surrounding hills they watchedlong stock trains winding snakily over theprairie toward Chicago. During thosemaddening days and nights Billy added afresh crease to the group between hiseyebrows and deepened the old ones, andDill rode three horses thin galloping backand forth between the ranch and the herd,in helpless anxiety.

At last the cars came and the beef, a gooddeal thinner than it had been, was loadedand gone, and the two relaxed somewhatfrom the strain. The market was lowerwhen that beef reached its destination, andthey did not bring the "top" price whichBilly had promised Dill.

So the shipping season passed and Dillmade his payment on the mortgage byborrowing twelve thousand dollars, usinga little over two thousand to make up thedeficit in shipping returns and holding theremainder for current expenses. Truly, thedisagreeable element which would creepin where Billy had least expected scored apoint there, and once more the castle hehad builded for himself and Dill and oneother lay in shadow.

CHAPTER XVIII.

When the North Wind Blows.

November came in with a blizzard; one ofthose sudden, sweeping whirls of snow,with bitter cold and a wind that drove thefine snow-flour through shack walls andaround window casings, and made onelook speculatively at the supply of fuel. Itwas such a storm as brings an aftermath ofsheepherders reported missing with theirbands scattered and wandering aimlesslyor else frozen, a huddled mass, in somewashout; such a storm as sends the rangecattle drifting, heads down and bodies

hunched together, neither knowing norcaring where their trail may end, so theyneed not face that bitter drive of wind andsnow.

It was the first storm of the season, andthey told one another it would be theworst. The Double-Crank wagons were onthe way in with a bunch of bawling calvesand cows when it came, and they wereforced to camp hastily in the shelter of acoulée till it was over, and to walk andlead their horses much of the time onguard that they might not freeze in thesaddle. But they pulled through it, and theygot to the ranch and the corrals with only afew calves left beside the trail to marktheir bitter passing. In the first days ofcold and calm that came after, the ranch

was resonant day and night with thatmonotonous, indescribable sound, likenothing else on earth unless it be thebeating of surf against a rocky shore—thebawling of nine hundred calves penned incorrals, their uproar but the nucleus for theprotesting clamor of nine hundred cowscircling outside or standing with nosespressed close against the corral rails.

Not one day and night it lasted, nor two.For four days the uproar showed no signof ever lessening, and on the fifth theeighteen hundred voices were so hoarsethat the calves merely whispered theirplaint, gave over in disgust and begannosing the scattered piles of hay. Thecows, urged by hunger, strayed from theblackened circle around the corrals and

went to burrowing in the snow for theripened grass whereby they must livethroughout the winter. They were drivenforth to the open range and left there, andthe Double-Crank settled down tocomparative quiet and what peace theymight attain. Half the crew rolled theirbeds and rode elsewhere to spend thewinter, returning, like the meadowlarks,with the first hint of soft skies and greengrass.

Jim Bleeker and a fellow they calledSpikes moved over to the Bridger placewith as many calves as the hay therewould feed, and two men were sent downto the line-camp to winter. Two were keptat the Double-Crank Ranch to feed thecalves and make themselves generally

useful—the quietest, best boys of the lotthey were, because they must eat in thehouse and Billy was thoughtful of thewomen.

So the Double-Crank settled itself for thelong winter and what it might bring ofgood or ill.

Billy was troubled over more things thanone. He could not help seeing that Florawas worrying a great deal over her father,and that the relations between herself andMama Joy were, to put it mildly andtritely, strained. With the shadow of whatsorrow might be theirs, hidden away fromthem in the frost-prisoned North, therewas no dancing to lighten the weeks asthey passed, and the women of the range

land are not greatly given to "visiting" inwinter. The miles between ranches are toolong and too cold and uncertain, so thatnothing less alluring than a dance maydraw them from home. Billy thought it ashame, and that Flora must be terriblylonesome.

It was a long time before he had more thanfive minutes at a stretch in which to talkprivately with her. Then one morning hecame in to breakfast and saw that the chairof Mama Joy was empty; and Flora, whenhe went into the kitchen afterward, toldhim with almost a relish in her tone thatMrs. Bridger—she called her that, alsowith a relish—was in bed with toothache.

"Her face is swollen on one side till she

couldn't raise a dimple to save her life,"she announced, glancing to see that thedoors were discreetly closed. "It's such arelief, when you've had to look at them forfour years. If I had dimples," she added,spitefully rattling a handful of knives andforks into the dishpan, "I'd plug the thingswith beeswax or dough, or anything that Icould get my hands on. Heavens! How Ihate them!"

"Same here," said Billy, with guiltyfervor. It was treason to one of his fewprinciples to speak disparagingly of awoman, but it was in this case a greatrelief. He had never before seen Flora injust this explosive state, and he had neverheard her say "Heavens!" Somehow, italso seemed to him that he had never seen

her so wholly lovable. He went up to her,tilted her head back a little, and put a kisson the place where dimples were not."That's one uh the reasons why I like yuhso much," he murmured. "Yuh haven't gotdimples or yellow hair or blue eyes—thank the Lord! Some uh these days, girlie,I'm going t' pick yuh up and run off withyuh."

Her eyes, as she looked briefly up at him,were a shade less turbulent. "You'd betterwatch out or she will be running off withyou!" she said, and drew gently awayfrom him. "There! That's a horrid thing tosay, Billy Boy, but it isn't half as horrid as—And she watches me and wants to knoweverything we say to each other, and is—"She stopped abruptly and turned to get hot

water.

"I know it's tough, girlie." Charming Billy,considering his ignorance of women,showed an instinct for just the sympathyshe needed. "I haven't had a chance tospeak to yuh, hardly, for months—anythingbut common remarks made in public. Howlong does the toothache last as a generalthing?" He took down the dish towel fromits nail inside the pantry door andprepared to help her. "She's good for to-day, ain't she?"

"Oh, yes—and I suppose it does hurt, andI ought to be sorry. But I'm not. I'm glad ofit. I wish her face would stay that way allwinter! She's so fussy about her looks shewon't put her nose out of her room till

she's pretty again. Oh, Billy Boy, I wish Iwere a man!"

"Well, I don't!" Billy disagreed. "If yuhwas," he added soberly, "and stayed aspretty as yuh are now, she'd—" But Billycould not bring himself to finish thesentence.

"Do you think it's because you're so prettythat she—"

Flora smiled reluctantly. "If I were a manI could swear and swear!"

"Swear anyhow," suggested Billyencouragingly. "I'll show yuh how."

"And father away off in Klondyke," shesaid irrelevantly, passing over his

generous offer, "and—and dead, for allwe know! And she doesn't care—at all!She—"

Sympathy is good, but it has adisagreeable way of bringing all one'stroubles to the front ratheroverwhelmingly. Flora suddenly droppeda plate back into the pan, leaned her faceagainst the wall by the sink and began tocry in a tempestuous manner ratherfrightened Charming Billy Boyle, who hadnever before seen a grown woman cryreal tears and sob like that.

He did what he could. He put his armsaround her and held her close, and pattedher hair and called her girlie, and laid hisbrown cheek against her wet one and told

her to never mind and that it would be allright anyway, and that her father wasprobably picking away in his mine rightthen and wishing she was there to fry hisbacon for him.

"I wish I was, too," she murmured,weaned from her weeping and talking intohis coat. "If I'd known how—she—reallywas, I wouldn't ever have stayed. I'd havegone with father."

"And where would I come in?" hedemanded selfishly, and so turned theconversation still farther from her trouble.

The water went stone cold in the dishpanand the fire died in the stove so that thefrost spread a film over the thawed centre

of the window panes. There is no tellingwhen the dishes would have been washedthat day if Mama Joy had not begun topound energetically upon the floor—withthe heel of a shoe, judging from the sound.Even that might not have proved a seriousinterruption; but Dill put his head in fromthe dining room and got as far as "Thatgray horse, William—" before he caughtthe significance of Flora perched on theknee of "William" and retreated hastily.

So Flora went to see what Mama Joywanted, and Billy hurried somewhatguiltily out to find what was the matterwith the gray horse, and practical affairsonce more took control.

After that, Billy considered himself an

engaged young man. He went back to hisditty and inquired frequently:

"Can she make a punkin pie, Billy boy,Billy Boy?"

and was very nearly the old, care-freeCharming Billy of the line-camp. It is truethat Mama Joy recovered disconcertinglythat afternoon, and became once moreubiquitous, but Billy felt that nothing couldcheat him of his joy, and remainedcheerful under difficulties. He couldexchange glances of much secretunderstanding with Flora, and he couldsnatch a hasty kiss, now and then, andwhen the chaperonage was too unremittingshe could slip into his hands a hurriedlypenciled note, filled with important

nothings. Which made a bright spot in hislife and kept Flora from thinkingaltogether of her father and fretting forsome news of him.

Still, there were other things to worry himand to keep him from forgetting that thelaw of nature, which he had beforedefined to his own satisfaction, stillgoverned the game. Storm followed stormwith a monotonous regularity that was, tosay the least, depressing, though to be surethere had been other winters like this, andnot even Billy could claim that Naturewas especially malignant.

But with Brown's new fence stretching formiles to the south and east of the openrange near home, the drifting cattle

brought up against it during the blindingblizzards and huddled there, freezing inthe open, or else plodded stolidly alongbeside it until some washout or coulée toodeep for crossing barred their way, so thatthe huddling and freezing was at bestmerely postponed. Billy, being quite aliveto the exigencies of the matter, rode androde, and with him rode Dill and the othertwo men when they had the leisure—which was not often, since the stormsmade much "shoveling" of hay necessaryif they would keep the calves from dyingby the dozen. They pushed the cattle awayfrom the fences—to speak figuratively andcolloquially—and drove them back to theopen range until the next storm or coldnorth wind came and compelled them torepeat the process.

If Billy had had unlimited opportunity forlovemaking, he would not have had thetime, for he spent hours in the saddleevery day, unless the storm was too bitterfor even him to face. There was the line-camp with which to keep in touch; he mustride often to the Bridger place—or hethought he must—to see how they weregetting on. It worried him to see how largethe "hospital bunch" was growing, and tosee how many dark little mounds dottedthe hollows, except when a new-fallenblanket of snow made them white—thecarcasses of the calves that had "laid 'emdown" already.

"Yuh ain't feeding heavy enough, boys," hetold them once, before he quite realizedhow hard the weather was for stock.

"Yuh better ride around the hill and take alook at the stacks," suggested Jim Bleeker."We're feeding heavy as we dare, Bill. Ifwe don't get a let-up early we're going tobe plumb out uh hay. There ain't been aweek all together that the calves couldfeed away from the sheds. That's wherethe trouble lays."

Billy rode the long half-mile up the couléeto where the hay had mostly been stacked,and came back looking sober. "There's nouse splitting the bunch and taking some tothe Double-Crank," he said. "We need allthe hay we've got over there. Shove 'emout on the hills and make 'em feed a littleevery day that's fit, and bank up themsheds and make 'em warmer. This winter'sgoing to be one of our old steadies, the

way she acts so far. It's sure a fright, theway this weather eats up the hay."

It was such incidents as these whichweaned him again from his singing and hislight-heartedness as the weeks passedcoldly toward spring. He did not say verymuch about it to Dill, because he had aconstitutional aversion to piling up agonyahead of him; besides, Dill could see forhimself that the loss would be heavy,though just how heavy he hadn't theexperience with which to estimate. AsMarch came in with a blizzard and went, asuccession of bleak days, into April, Billyknew more than he cared to admit even tohimself. He would lie awake at nightwhen the wind and snow raved over theland, and picture the bare open that he

knew, with lean, Double-Crank stockdrifting tail to the wind. He could fancythem coming up against this fence and thatfence, which had not been there a year ortwo ago, and huddling there, freezing, cutoff from the sheltered coulées that wouldhave saved them.

"Damn these nesters and their fences!" Hewould grit his teeth at his helplessness,and then try to forget it all and think onlyof Flora.

CHAPTER XIX.

"I'm Not Your Wife Yet!"

Billy, coming back from the biggest townin the country, where he had gone to pickup another man or two for the round-upwhich was at hand, met the Pilgrim face toface as he was crossing the creek to go tothe corrals. It was nearing sundown and itwas Sunday, and those two details, whenused in connection with the Pilgrim,seemed unpleasantly significant. Besides,Billy was freshly antagonistic because ofsomething he had heard while he wasaway; instead of returning the Pilgrim's

brazenly cheerful "Hello," he scowled androde on without so much as giving adownward tilt to his chin. For CharmingBilly Boyle was never inclined todiplomacy, or to hiding his feelings in anyway unless driven to it by absolutenecessity.

When he went into the house he saw thatFlora had her hair done in a new way thatwas extremely pretty, and that she had ona soft, white silk shirt-waist with lots oflace zigzagged across—a waist hithertokept sacred to dances and other gloriousoccasions—and a soft, pink bow pinned inher hair; all these things he mentallyconnected with the visit of the Pilgrim.When he turned to see a malicious light inthe round, blue eyes of Mama Joy and a

spiteful satisfaction in her very dimples, itsuddenly occurred to him that he wouldcertainly have something to say to MissFlora. It was no comfort to know that allwinter the Pilgrim had not been near,because all winter he had been awaysomewhere—rumor had it that he spent hiswinters in Iowa. Like the birds, he alwaysreturned with the spring.

Billy never suspected that Mama Joy readhis face and left them purposely togetherafter supper, though he was surprisedwhen she arose from the table and said:

"Flora, you make Billy help you with thedishes. I've got a headache and I'm goingto lie down."

At any rate, it gave him the opportunity hewanted.

"Are yuh going to let the Pilgrim hangaround here this summer?" he demandedin his straight-from-the-shoulder fashionwhile he was drying the first cup.

"You mean Mr. Walland? I didn't know heever 'hung around'." Flora was not meek,and Billy realized that, as he put itmentally, he had his work cut out for himto pull through without a quarrel.

"I mean the Pilgrim. And I call it hangingaround when a fellow keeps running to seea girl that's got a loop on her already. Idon't want to lay down the law to yuh,Girlie, but that blamed Siwash has got to

keep away from here. He ain't fit for yuhto speak to—and I'd a told yuh before,only I didn't have any right—"

"Are you sure you have a right now?" Thetone of Flora was sweet and calm andpatient. "I'll tell you one thing, CharmingBilly Boyle, Mr. Walland has neverspoken one word against you. He—helikes you, and I don't think it's nice for you—"

"Likes me! Like hell he does!" snortedBilly, not bothering to choose nice words."He'd plug me in the back like an Injun ifhe thought he could get off with it. Iremember him when I hazed him awayfrom line-camp, the morning after youstayed there, he promised faithful to kill

me. Uh course, he won't, because he'safraid, but—I don't reckon yuh can call itliking—"

"Why did you 'haze him away,' as you callit, Billy? And kill his dog? It was a nicedog; I love dogs, and I don't see how anyman—"

Billy flushed hotly. "I hazed him awaybecause he insulted you," he said bluntly,not quite believing in her ignorance.

Flora, her hands buried deep in thesoapsuds, looked at him round-eyed. "Inever heard of that before," she saidslowly. "When, Billy? And what did he—say?"

Billy stared at her. "I don't know what hesaid! I wouldn't think you'd need to ask.When I came in the cabin—I lied aboutgetting lost from the trail—I turned aroundand came back, because I was afraid hemight come before I could get back, and—when I came in, there was something. Icould tell, all right. Yuh sat there behindthe table looking like yuh was—well,kinda cornered. And he was—Flora, hedid say something, or do something! Hedidn't act right to yuh. I could tell. Didn'the? Yuh needn't be afraid to tell me,Girlie. I give him a thrashing for it. Whatwas it? I want to know." He did notrealize how pugnacious was his pose, buthe was leaning toward her with his facequite close, and his eyes were blue pointsof intensity. His hands, doubled and

pressing hard on the table, showed whiteat the knuckles.

Flora rattled the dishes in the pan andlaughed unsteadily. "Go to work, BillyBoy, and don't act stagey," shecommanded lightly. "I'll tell you the exacttruth—and that isn't anything to get excitedover. Fred Walland came about threeminutes before you did, and of course Ididn't know he belonged there. I wasafraid. He pushed open the door, and hewas swearing a little at the ice there,where we threw out the dish water. I knewit wasn't you, and I got back in the corner.He came in and looked awfully stunned atseeing me and said, 'I beg your pardon,fair one'." She blushed and did not lookup. "He said, 'I didn't know there was a

lady present,' and put down the sack ofstuff and looked at me for a minute or twowithout saying a word. He was just goingto speak, I think, when you burst in. Andthat's all there was to it, Billy Boy. I wasfrightened because I didn't know who hewas, and he did stare—but, so did you,Billy Boy, when I opened the door andwalked in. You stared every bit as hardand long as Fred Walland did."

"But I'll bet I didn't have the same look inmy face. Yuh wasn't scared of me," Billyasserted shrewdly.

"I was too! I was horribly scared—atfirst. So if you fought Fred Walland andkilled his dog" (the reproach of her tone,then!) "because you imagined a lot that

wasn't true, you ought to go straight andapologize."

"I don't think I will! Good Lord! Flora, doyuh think I don't know the stuff he's madeof? He's a low-down, cowardly cur—thekind uh man that is always bragging about—" (Billy stuck there. With her big,innocent eyes looking up at him, he couldnot say "bragging about the women he'sruined," so he changed weakly) "about allhe's done. He's a murderer that ought byrights t' be in the pen right now—"

"I think that will do, Billy!" sheinterrupted indignantly. "You know hecouldn't help killing that man."

"I kinda believed that, too, till I run onto

Jim Johnson up in Tower. You don't knowJim, but he's a straight man and wouldn'tlie. Yuh remember, Flora, the Pilgrim toldme the Swede pulled a knife on him. Istooped down and looked, and I didn't seeno knife—nor gun, either. And I wasn't soblamed excited I'd be apt to pass upanything like that; I've seen men shotbefore, and pass out with their boots on, inmore excitable ways than a little, plain,old killing. So I didn't see anything in theshape of a weapon. But when I come back,here lays a Colt forty-five right in plainsight, and the Pilgrim saying, 'He pulled agun on me,' right on top uh telling me itwas a knife. I thought at the time there wassomething queer about that, and about himnot having a gun on him when I know healways packed one—like every other fool

Pilgrim that comes West with the idea he'sgot to fight his way along from breakfastto supper, and sleep with his six-gununder his pillow!"

"And I know you don't like him, and you'dthink he had some ulterior motive if herolled his cigarette backward once! I don'tsee anything but just your dislike trying totwist things—"

"Well, hold on a minute! I got to talkingwith Jim, and we're pretty good friends.So he told me on the quiet that GusSvenstrom gave him his gun to keep, thatnight. Gus was drinking, and said he didn'twant to be packing it around for fear hemight get foolish with it. Jim had it—Jimwas tending bar that time in that little log

saloon, in Hardup—when the Swede waskilled. So it wasn't the Swedes gun on theground—and if he borrowed one, whichhe wouldn't be apt to do, why didn't thefellow he got it from claim it?"

"And if all this is true, why didn't yourfriend come and testify at the hearing?"demanded Flora, her eyes glowing. "Itsounds to me exactly like a piece ofspiteful old-woman gossip, and I don'tbelieve a word of it!"

"Jim ain't a gossip. He kept his mouth shutbecause he didn't want to make trouble,and he was under the impression theSwede had borrowed a gun somewhere.Being half drunk, he could easy forgetwhat he'd done with his own, and the

Pilgrim put up such a straight story—"

"Fred told the truth. I know he did. I don'tbelieve he had a gun that night, because—because I had asked him as a favor toplease not carry one to dances and places.There, now! He'd do what I asked him to.I know he would. And I think you're justmean, to talk like this about him; and,mind you, if he wants to come here he can.I don't care if he comes every day!" Shewas so near to tears that her voice brokeand kept her from saying more that wasfoolish.

"And I tell yuh, if he comes around hereany more I'll chase him off the ranch witha club!" Billy's voice was not as loud asusual, but it was harsh and angry. "He ain't

going to come here hanging around you—not while I can help it, and I guess I can,all right!" He threw down the dish towel,swept a cup off the table with his elbowwhen he turned, and otherwise betrayedhuman, unromantic rage. "Damn him, Iwisht I'd chased him off long ago. Fred,eh? Hell! I'll Fred him! Yuh think I'mgoing to stand for him running after mygirl? I'll kick him off the place. He ain't fitto speak to yuh, or look at yuh; hisfriendship's an insult to any decentwoman. I'll mighty quick put a stop to—"

"Will Boyle, you don't dare! I'm not yourwife yet, remember! I'm free to choose myown friends without asking leave of anyone, and if I want Fred Walland to comehere, he'll come, and it will take more than

you to stop him. I—I'll write him a note,and ask him to dinner next Sunday. I—I'llmarry him if I want to, Will Boyle, andyou can't stop me! He—he wants me to,badly enough, and if you—"

Billy was gone, and the kitchen wasrattling with the slam of the door behindhim, before she had time to make any moredeclarations that would bring repentanceafterward. She stood a minute, listening tosee whether he would come back, andwhen he did not, she ran to the door,opened it hastily and looked. She sawBilly just in the act of swishing his quirtdown on the flanks of Barney so that thehorse almost cleared the creek in onebound. Flora caught her breath and gave aqueer little sob. She watched him, wide-

eyed and white, till he was quite out ofsight and then went in and shut the doorupon the quiet, early spring twilight.

As for Billy, he was gone to find thePilgrim. Just what he would do when hedid find him was not quite plain, becausehe was promising himself so many deedsof violence that no man could possiblyperform them all upon one victim. At thecreek, he was going to "shoot him like acoyote." A quarter of a mile farther, hewould "beat his damn' head off," and, as ifthose were not deaths sufficient, he wasafter that determined to "take him by theheels and snap his measly head off likeyuh would a grass snake!"

Threatened as he was, the Pilgrim

nevertheless escaped, because Billy didnot happen to come across him before hisrage had cooled to reason. He rode on toHardup, spent the night there swallowingmore whisky than he had drunk before insix months, and after that playing pokerwith a recklessness that found a bittersatisfaction in losing and thus provinghow vilely the world was using him, andwent home rather unsteadily at sunrise andslept heavily in the bunk-house all thatday. For Billy Boyle was distressinglyhuman in his rages as in his happiermoods, and was not given to gentle,picturesque melancholy and to wailing atthe silent stars.

CHAPTER XX.

The Shadow Lies Long.

What time he was compelled to be in thehouse, in the few remaining days beforeround-up, he avoided Flora or waspunctiliously polite. Only once did headdress her directly by name, and then hecalled her Miss Bridger with a stiffformality that made Mama Joy dimplewith spiteful satisfaction. Flora replied bycalling him Mr. Boyle, and would not lookat him.

Then it was all in the past, and Billy was

out on the range learning afresh howsickeningly awry one's plans may go. Asmile after mile of smiling grass-land wascovered by the sweep of the Double-Crank circles, the disaster pressed morepainfully upon him. When the wagons hadleft the range the fall before, Billy hadestimated roughly that eight or ninethousand head of Double-Crank stockwandered at will in the open. But with thegathering and the calf-branding he knewthat the number had shrunk woefully. Ofthe calves he had left with their mothers inthe fall, scarce one remained; of the cowsthemselves he could find not half, and thecalf-branding was becoming a grim jokeamong the men.

"Eat hearty," they would sometimes banter

one another. "We got to buckle down andwork this afternoon. They's three calvesmilling around out there waiting to bebranded!"

"Aw, come off! There ain't but two,"another would bellow.

If it were not quite as bad as that, it was inall conscience bad enough, and when theyswung up to the reservation line and foundthere a fence in the making, and saw theIndian cowboys at work throwing out allbut reservation stock, Billy mentally threwup his hands and left the outfit in JimBleeker's charge while he rode home toconsult Dill. For Billy Boyle, knowingwell his range-lore, could see nothingbefore the Double-Crank but black failure.

"It begins to look, Dilly," he began, "asthough I've stuck yuh on this game. Yuhstaked the wrong player; yuh should uhbacked the man that stacked the deck onme. There's hell to pay on the range, Dilly.Last winter sure put a crimp in the range-stuff—that's what I come to tell yuh. Iknew it would cut into the bunch. I couldtell by the way things was going closearound here—but I didn't look for it to beas bad as it is. And they're fencing in thereservation this spring—that cuts off a bigchunk uh mighty good grazing and wintershelter along all them creeks. And I seethere's quite a bunch uh grangers come in,since I was along east uh here. They've gotcattle turned on the range, and there's halfa dozen shacks scattered—"

"Mr. Brown is selling off tracts of landwith water-rights—under that big ditch,you understand. He's working a sort ofcolonization scheme, as near as I can findout. He is also fencing more land to thenorth and west—toward Hardup, in fact. Ibelieve they already have most of theposts set. We'll soon be surrounded,William. And while we're upon thesubject of our calamities, I might state thatwe shall not be able to do any irrigatingthis season. Mr. Brown is running hisditch half full and has been for some littletime. He kindly leaves enough for ourstock to drink, however!"

"Charitable old cuss—that same Brown! Iwas figuring on the hay to kinda easethrough next winter. Do yuh know, Dilly,

the range is just going t' be a death-trap,with all them damn fences for the stock todrift into. Another winter half as bad asthe last one was will sure put the finishingtouches to the Double-Crank—unless weget busy and do something." Billy, his faceworn and his eyes holding that tired lookwhich comes of nights sleepless and oflooking long upon trouble, turned andbegan to pull absently at a splinteredplace in the gatepost. He had stopped Dillat the corral to have a talk with him,because to him the house was as desolateas if a dear one lay dead inside. Flora wasat home—trust his eyes to see her faceappear briefly at the window when herode up!—but he could not yet quiteendure to face her and her cold greeting.

Dill, looking to Billy longer and lankerand mere melancholy than ever, caressedhis chin meditatively and regarded Billyin his wistful, half-deprecating way. Withthe bitter knowledge that his castle, andwith it Dill's fortune, was toppling, Billycould hardly bear to meet that look. Andhe had planned such great things, and hadmeant to make Dilly a millionaire!

"What would you advise, William, underthe present unfavorable conditions?"asked Dill hesitatingly.

"Oh, I dunno. I've laid awake nights tryin'to pick a winning card. If it was me, andme alone, I'd pull stakes and hunt anotherrange—and I'd go gunning after the firstdamn' man that stuck up a post to hang

barb-wire on. But after me making such arotten-poor job uh running the Double-Crank, I don't feel called on to lay downthe law to anybody!"

"If you will permit me to pass judgment,William, I will say that you have shownan ability for managing men and affairswhich I consider remarkable; quiteremarkable. You, perhaps, do not go deepenough in searching for the cause of ourmisfortunes. It is not bad management orthe hard winter, or Mr. Brown, even—andI blame myself bitterly for failing to readaright the 'handwriting on the wall,' toquote scripture, which I seldom do. If youhave ever read history, William, you mustknow—even if you have not read historyyou should know from observation—how

irresistible is the march of progress; howutterly futile it is for individuals to attemptto defy it. I should have known that theshadow of a great change has fallen on theWest—the West of the wide, open rangesand the cattle and the cowboy who tendsthem. I should have seen it, but I did not. Iwas culpably careless.

"Brown saw it, and that, William, is whyhe sold the Double-Crank to me. He sawthat the range was doomed, and instead ofbeing swallowed with the open range hevery wisely changed his business; hebecame allied with Progress, and he wasin the front rank. While we are being'broken' on the wheel of evolutionarychange, he will make his millions—"

"Damn him!" gritted Billy savagely, underhis breath.

"He is to be admired, William. Such aman is bound in the very nature of thingsto succeed. It is the range and—and you,William, and those like you, that must go.It is hard—no doubt it is extremely hard,but it is as irresistible as—as death itself.Civilization is compelled to crush the oldorder of things that it may fertilize the soilout of which grows the new. It is so inplant life, and in the life of humans, also.

"I am explaining at length, William, so thatyou will quite understand why I do notthink it wise to follow your suggestion. AsI say, it is not Brown, or the fences, oranything of that sort—taken in a large

sense—which is forcing us to the wall. Itis the press of natural progress, thepushing farther and farther of civilization.We might move to a more unsettledportion of the country and delay for a timethe ultimate crushing. We could not avoidit entirely; we might, at best, merelypostpone it.

"My idea is to gather everything and sellfor as high a price as possible. Then—perhaps it would be well to follow Mr.Brown's example, and turn this place intoa farm; or sell it, also, and try somethingelse. What do you think, William?"

But Billy, his very soul sickening underthe crushing truth of what Dill in his primgrammatical way was saying, did not

answer at all. He was picking blindly,mechanically at the splinter, his faceshaded by his worn, gray hat; and he wasthinking irrelevantly how a condemnedman must feel when they come to him inhis cell and in formal words read aloudhis death-warrant. One sentence wasbeating monotonously in his brain: "It isthe range—and you, William, and thoselike you—that must go." It was not a mereloss of dollars or of cattle or even ofhopes; it was the rending, the tearing fromhim of a life he loved; it was the taking ofthe range—land—the wide, beautiful,weather-worn land—big and grand in itsfreedom of all that was narrow andsordid, and it was cutting and scarring it,harnessing it to the petty uses of a class hedespised with all the frank egotism of a

man who loves his own outlook; giving itover to the "nester" and the "rube" andburying the sweet-smelling grasses withplows. It was—he could not, even in theeloquence of his utter despair, find wordsfor all it meant to him.

"I should, of course, leave the details toyou, so far as getting the most out of thestock is concerned. I have been thinking ofthis for some little time, and your report ofrange conditions merely confirms my ownjudgment. If you think we would bettersell at once—"

"I'd let 'em go till fall," said Billylifelessly, snapping the splinter back intoplace and reaching absently for histobacco and papers. "They're bound to

pick up a lot—and what's left is mostlybig, husky steers that'll make prime beef.With decent prices yuh ought to pull clearuh what yuh owe Brown, and have a littleleft. I didn't make anything like a count;they was so thin I handled 'em as light as Icould and get the calves branded—whatfew there was. But I feel tolerable safe insaying you can round up six—well,between six and seven thousand head. At afair price yuh ought to pull clear."

"Well, after dinner—"

"I can't stay for dinner, Dilly. I—there's—I've got to ride over here a piece—I'llcatch up a fresh hoss and start right off. I—" He went rather hurriedly after hisrope, as hurriedly caught the horse that

was handiest and rode away at a lope. Buthe did not go so very far. He just gallopedover the open range to a place where, lookwhere he might, he could not see a fenceor sign of habitation (and it wrung theheart of him that he must ride into a couléeto find such a place), got down from hishorse and lay a long, long while in thegrass with his hat pulled over his face.

For the first time in years the Fourth ofJuly saw Billy in camp and in his oldclothes. He had not hurried the round-up—on the contrary he had been guilty ofdragging it out unnecessarily by all sortsof delays and leisurely methods—simplybecause he hated to return to the ranch andbe near Flora. The Pilgrim he meant to

settle with, but he felt that he could wait;he hadn't much enthusiasm even for a fight,these days.

But, after all, he could not consistentlykeep the wagons forever on the range, sohe camped them just outside the pasturefence; which was far enough from thehouse to give him some chance of notbeing tormented every day by the sight ofher, and yet was close enough for allpractical purposes. And here it was thatDill came with fresh news.

"Beef is falling again, William," heannounced when he had Billy quite tohimself. "Judging from presentindications, it will go quite as low as lastfall—even lower, perhaps. If it does, I fail

to see how we can ship with any butdisastrous financial results."

"Well, what yuh going to do, then?" Billyspoke more irritably than would havebeen possible a year ago. "Yuh can'twinter again and come out with anythingbut another big loss. Yuh haven't even gothay to feed what few calves there is. And,as I told yuh, the way the fences are strungfrom hell to breakfast, the stock's bound todie off like poisoned flies every storm thatcomes."

"I have kept that in mind, William. I sawthat I should be quite unable to make apayment this fall, so I went to Mr. Brownto make what arrangements I could. To bebrief, William, Brown has offered to buy

back this place and the stock, on much thesame terms he offered me. I believe hewants to put this section of land underirrigation from his ditch and exploit itwith the rest; the cattle he can turn into hisimmense fields until they can be shippedat a profit. However, that is not our affairand need not concern us.

"He will take the stock as they run, attwenty-one dollars a head. If, as youestimate, there are somewhere in theneighborhood of six thousand, that willdear me of all indebtedness and leave afew thousands with which to start again—at something more abreast of the times, Ihope. I am rather inclined to take the offer.What do you think of it, William?"

"I guess yuh can't do any better. Twenty-one dollars a head as they run—andeverything else thrown in, uh course?"

"That is the way I bought it, yes," saidDill.

"Well, we ought to scare up six thousand,if we count close. I know old Brown fine;he'll hold yuh right down t' what yuh turnover, and he'll tally so close he'll want todock yuh if a critter's shy one horn—damnhim. That's why I was wishing you'dbought that way, instead uh lumping theprice and taking chances. Only, uh course,I knew just about what was on the range."

"Then I will accept the offer. I have beenmerely considering it until I saw you. And

perhaps it will be as well to go about itimmediately."

"It's plenty early," objected Billy. "I wasgoing to break some more hosses for thesaddle-bunch—but I reckon I'll leave 'emnow for Brown to bust. And for God-sake,Dilly, once yuh get wound up here, go onback where yuh come from. If the range isgoing—and they's no use saying it ain't—this ain't going to be no place for anywhite man." Which was merely Billy'sprejudice speaking.

CHAPTER XXI.

The End of the Double-Crank.

Dill himself rode on that last round-up.Considering that it was all new to him, hemade a remarkably good record forhimself among the men, who were morethan once heard to remark that "Dill-pickle's sure making a hand!" WhereverBilly went—and in those weeks Billyrode and worked with a feverish intensitythat was merely a fight against bitterthinking—Dill's stirrup clacked closealongside. He was silent, for the mostpart, but sometimes he talked

reminiscently of Michigan and his earlierlife there. Seldom did he refer to theunhappy end of the Double-Crank, or tothe reason why they were riding fromdawn to dusk, sweeping together all thecattle within the wide circle of riders andlater cutting out every Double-Crankanimal and holding them under carefulherd.

Even when they went with the first twelvehundred and turned them over to Brownand watched his careful counting, Dillmade no comment upon the reason for itbeyond one sentence. He read the receiptover slowly before laying it methodicallyin the proper compartment of his long red-leather book, and drew his features intohis puckered imitation of a smile. "Mr.

Brown has counted just twenty-onedollars more into my pocket than Iexpected," he remarked. "He tallied onemore than you did, William. I ought tohold that out of your wages, young man."

Rare as were Dill's efforts at joking, eventhis failed to bring more than a slightsmile to the face of Charming Billy Boyle.He was trying to look upon it all as a mereincident, a business matter, pure andsimple, but he could not. While he rodethe wide open reaches, there rode withhim the keen realization that it was theend. For him the old life on the range wasdead—for had not Dill made him see itso? And did not every raw-red fencepostproclaim anew its death? For every hilland every coulée he buried something of

his past and wept secretly beside thegrave. For every whiff of breakfast thatmingled with the smell of clean air in themorning came a pang of homesickness forwhat would soon be only a memory.

He was at heart a dreamer—wasCharming Billy Boyle; perhaps an idealist—possibly a sentimentalist. He had nevertried to find a name for the side of his lifethat struck deepest. He knew that theripple of a meadow-lark swinging on aweed against the sunrise, with diamond-sparkles all on the grass around, grippedhim and hurt him vaguely with its verysweetness. He knew that he loved to sitalone and look away to a far skyline andday-dream. He had always known that, forit had been as much a part of his life as

sleeping.

So now it was as if a real, tangibleshadow lay on the range. He could see italways lengthening before him, andalways he must ride within its shade.After a while it would grow quite black,and the range and the cattle and the ridingover hills and into coulées untamed wouldall be blotted out; dead and buried deep inthe past, and with the careless, ploddingfeet of the plowman trampling unthinkinglyupon the grave. It was a tragedy toCharming Billy Boyle; it was as if therange-land were a woman he loved well,and as if civilization were the despoiler,against whom he had no means of defense.

All this—and besides, Flora. He had not

spoken to her for two months. He had notseen her even, save for a passing glimpsenow and then at a distance. He had notnamed her to any man, or asked how shedid—and yet there had not been an hourwhen he had not longed for her. She hadtold him she would marry the Pilgrim (shehad not said that, but Billy in his rage hadso understood her) and that he could notstop her. He wouldn't try to stop her. Buthe would one day settle with the Pilgrim—settle to the full. And he wanted her—wanted her!

They had taken the third herd in to Brown,and were back on the range; Billy meaningto make a last sweep around the outeredges and gather in what was left—thestragglers that had been missed before.

There would not be many, he knew fromexperience; probably not more than ahundred or two all told, even with Billyanxious to make the count as large aspossible.

He was thinking about it uneasily andstaring out across the wide coulée to thered tumble of clouds, that had strangepurples and grays and dainty violet shadeshere and there. Down at the creek Dillwas trying to get a trout or two morebefore it grew too dark for them to rise tothe raw beef he was swishing through theriffle, and an impulse to have the worstover at once and be done drove Billydown to interrupt.

"Yuh won't get any more there," he said,

by way of making speech.

"I just then had a bite, William," reprovedDill, and swung the bait in a wide circlefor another awkward cast. He was apersistent soul, was Dill, when once hegot started in a given direction.

Billy, dodging the red morsel of meat, satdown on a grassy hummock. "Aw, comeand set down, Dilly," he urged wearily. "Iwant to tell yuh something."

"If it's about the cook being out ofevaporated cream, William, I havealready been informed twice. Ah-h! Ialmost had one then!"

"Aw, thunder! yuh think I'm worrying over

canned cream? What I want to say may notbe more important, but when yuh getfishing enough I'll say it anyhow." Hewatched Dill moodily, and then lifted hiseyes to stare at the gorgeous sky—asthough there would be no more sunsetswhen the range-life was gone, and he mustneeds fill well his memory for the barrenyears ahead.

When Dill flopped a six-inch trout againsthis ear, so steeped was he in bitternessthat he merely said, "Aw, hell!" wearilyand hunched farther along on thehummock.

"I really beg your pardon, William. Fromthe vicious strike he made, I wasconvinced that he weighed at least half a

pound, and exerted more muscular forcethan was quite necessary. When one hasn'ta reel it is impossible to play themproperly, and it is the first quick pull thatone must depend upon. I'm very sorry—"

"Sure. Don't mention it, Dilly. Say, howmany cattle have yuh got receipts for, todate—if it ain't too much trouble?"

"No trouble at all, William. I have anexcellent memory for figures. Fourthousand, three hundred and fifteen. Ah-h!See how instinct inspires him to flopalways toward the water! Did you ever—"

"Well, yes, I've saw a fish flop toward thewater once or twicet before now. It sure is

a great sight, Dilly!" He did notunderstand Dill these days, and wondereda good deal at his manifest indifference tobusiness cares. It never occurred to himthat Dill, knowing quite well how hard thetrouble pressed upon his foreman, wasonly trying in his awkward way to lightenit by not seeming to think it worthworrying over.

"I hate to mention trifles at such a time,Dilly, but I thought maybe yuh ought toknow that we won't be able to scare upmore than a couple uh hundred morecattle, best we can do. We're bound to falla lot short uh what I estimated—and I ain'tsaying nothing about the fine job uhguessing I done! If we bring the total up toforty-five hundred, we'll do well."

Dill took plenty of time to wind the linearound his willow pole. "To use your ownexpressive phraseology, William," hesaid, when he had quite finished and hadlaid the pole down on the bank, "that willleave me in one hell-of-a-hole!"

"That's what I thought," Billy returnedapathetically.

"Well, I must take these up to the cook."Dill held up the four fish he had caught."I'll think the matter over, William, and Ithank you for telling me. Of course youwill go on and gather what there are."

"Sure," agreed Billy tonelessly, andfollowed Dill back to camp and went tobed.

At daybreak it was raining, and Billy afterthe manner of cowboys slept late; for therewould be no riding until the weathercleared, and there being no herd to hold,there would be none working save thehorse-wrangler, the night-hawk and cook.It was the cook who handed him a foldedpaper and a sealed envelope when he didfinally appear for a cup of coffee. "Dill-pickle left 'em for yuh," he said.

Billy read the note—just a few lines, witha frown of puzzlement.

Dear William: Business compels myabsence for a time. I hope you will go onwith your plans exactly as if I were withyou. I am leaving a power-of-attorneywhich will enable you to turn over the

stock and transact any other business thatmay demand immediate attention, in case Iam detained.

Yours truly,

Alexander P. Dill

It was queer, but Billy did not waste muchtime in wondering. He rounded up the lastof the Double-Cranks, drove them toBrown's place and turned them over, withthe home ranch, the horses, and campoutfit—"made a clean sweep uh the wholedamn', hoodooed works," was the way heafterward put it. He had expected that Dillwould be there to attend to the last legalforms, but there was no sign of him orfrom him. He had been seen to take the

eastbound train at Tower, and the rest wasleft to guessing.

"He must uh known them two-hundred oddwouldn't square the deal," argued Billyloyally to himself. "So uh course he'llcome back and fix it up. But what I'm todo about payin' off the boys gets me." Fortwo hours he worried, mentally in thedark. Then he hit upon an expedient thatpleased him. He told Brown he wouldneed to keep a few of the saddle-horsesfor a few days, and he sent the boys—those of them who did not transfer theirvaluable services to Brown upon theasking—over to the Bridger place to waitthere until further orders.

Also, he rode reluctantly to the Double-

Crank ranch, wondering, as he had oftendone in the past few weeks, what wouldbecome of Flora and Mama Joy. So far ashe knew, they had not heard a word as towhether Bridger was alive or dead, and ifthey had friends or family to whom theymight turn, he had never heard eithermention them. If Dill had been there hewould have left it to him; but Dill wasgone, and there was no knowing when hewould be back, and it devolved uponBilly to make some arrangements for thewomen, or at the least offer his services—and it was, under the circumstances, quitethe most unpleasant duty thus far laid uponhim.

He knew they had been left there at theranch when round-up started, because Dill

had said something about leaving a gentlehorse or two for them to ride. Whetherthey were still there he did not know,although he could easily have askedSpikes, who had been given charge of theranch while Dill was away on the range.He supposed the Pilgrim would behanging around, as usual—not that it mademuch difference, though, except that hehated the thought of a disagreeable scenebefore the women.

He rode slowly up to the corral gate,turned his horse inside and fastened thechain just as he had done a thousand timesbefore—only this would be the last time.His tired eyes went from one familiarobject to another, listlessly aware of theregret he should feel but too utterly

wearied of sorrow to feel much ofanything. No one seemed to be about, andthe whole place had an atmosphere ofdesolation that almost stirred him to aheartache—almost.

He went on to the house. There were somesigns of life there, and some sound. In thevery doorway he met old Bridger himself,but he could not even feel much surprise atseeing him there. He said hello, and whenhe saw the other's hand stretching out tomeet him, he clasped it indifferently.Behind her husband, Mama Joy flashed athim a look he did not try to interpret—of atruth it was rather complex, with a little ofseveral emotions—and he lifted his hat ahalf-inch from his forehead in deference toher sex. Flora, he thanked God dully, he

did not see at all.

He stayed perhaps ten minutes listeningimpersonally to Bridger, who talkedloudly and enthusiastically of his plans. Atthe time they did not seem to concern himat all, though they involved taking Floraand Mama Joy away to Seattle to spendthe winter, and in the spring moving themon to some place in the North—a placethat sounded strange in the ears of Billy,and was straightway forgotten.

After that he went to his room and packedwhat few things he wanted; and they werenot many, because in his present moodnothing mattered and nothing seemed tohim of much value—not even life. He wasmore careful of Dill's belongings, and

packed everything he could find that washis. They were not scattered, for Dill wasa methodical man and kept things in theirplaces instinctively.

He paused over but one object—"TheEssays of Elia," which had somehowfallen behind a trunk. Standing there in themiddle of Dill's room, he turned the littleblue book absently in his hand. There wasdust upon the other side, and he wiped itoff, manlike, with a sweep of his forearm.He looked at the trunk; he had just lockedit with much straining of muscles and hehated to open it again. He looked at thebook again. He seemed to see Dillslumped loosely down in the old rocker, aslippered foot dangling before him,reading solemnly from this same little blue

book, the day he came to tell him about theditch, and that he must lease all the land hecould—the day when the shadow ofpassing first touched the range-land. Atleast, the day when he had first seen itthere. He turned a few leaves thoughtfully,heard Flora's voice asking a question inthe kitchen, and thrust the book hastily intohis pocket. "Dilly'll want it, I expect," hemuttered. He glanced quickly,comprehensively around him to make surethat he had missed nothing, turned towardthe open front door and went outhurriedly, because he thought he heard awoman's step in the dining room and hedid not want to see anybody, not evenFlora—least of all, Flora!

"I'll send a rig out from town for the stuff

that's ours," he called back to Bridger,who came to the kitchen door and calledafter him that he better wait and havesome supper. "You'll be here till to-morrow or next day; it ain't likely I'll beback; yuh say Dill settled up with the—women, so—there's nothing left to do."

If he had known—but how could he knowthat Flora was watching him wistfullyfrom the front porch, when he never oncelooked toward the house after he reachedthe stable?

CHAPTER XXII.

Settled In Full.

On a lonely part of the trail to town—queerly, it was when he was rounding thelow, barren hill where he and Dill hadfirst met—he took out his brand-book andwent over the situation. It was Barney herode, and Barney could be trusted to pacealong decorously with the reins twistedtwice around the saddle-horn, so Billygave no thought to his horse but put hiswhole mind on the figures. He was notmuch used to these things; beyond keepingtally of the stock at branding and shipping

time and putting down what details of hisbusiness he dared not trust to memory, apencil was strange to his fingers. But thelegal phrases in the paper left by Dill andsigned by the cook and night-hawk aswitnesses gave him a heavy sense ofresponsibility that everything should besettled exactly right. So now he went overthe figures slowly, adding them from thetop down and from the bottom up, to makesure he had the totals correct. He wishedthey were wrong; they might then be notquite so depressing.

"Lemme see, now. I turned over 4,523head uh stock, all told (hell of a fine jobuh guessing I done! Me saying there'd beover six thousand!) That made $94,983.And accordin' to old Brown—and I guess

he had it framed up correct—Dilly oweshim $2,217 yet, instead uh coming outwith enough to start some other business.It's sure queer, the way figures alwayscome out little when yuh want 'em big, andbig when yuh want 'em little! Them debtsnow—they could stand a lot uh shavin'down. Twelve thousand dollars andinterest, to the bank—I can't do a darnthing about them twelve thousand. If Dillyhadn't gone and made a cast-ironagreement I coulda held old Brown up fora few thousand more, on account uh theincrease in saddle-stock. I'd worked thatbunch up till it sure was a dandy lot uhhosses—but what yuh going to do?"

He stared dispiritedly out across thebrown prairie. "I'd oughta put Dilly next to

that, only I never thought about it at thetime, and I was so dead sure the range-stuff—And there's the men, got to havetheir money right away quick, so's theycan hurry up and blow it in! If Dilly ain'tback to-night, or I don't hear from him, Ireckon I'll have to draw m' little old wadout uh the bank and pay the sons-uh-guns. Isure ain't going to need it to buy dishesand rocking chairs and pictures—and Iwas going t' git her a piano—oh, hell!"

He still rode slowly, after that, but he didnot bother over the figures that stood forDilly's debts. He sat humped over thesaddle-horn like an old man and stared atthe trail and at the forefeet of Barneycoming down pluck, pluck with leisurelyregularity in the dust. Just so was

Charming Billy Boyle trampling down thedreams that had been so sweet in thedreaming, and leveling ruthlessly the veryfoundations of the fair castle he hadbuilded in the air for Dill and himself—and one other, with the fairest, highest,most secret chambers for that Other. Andas he rode, the face of him was worn andthe blue eyes of him sombre and dull; andhis mouth, that had lost utterly thehumorous, care-free quirk at the corners,was bitter, and straight, and hard.

He had started out with such naïveassurance to succeed, and—he had failedso utterly, so hopelessly, with not even aspectacular crash to make the failingpicturesque. He had done the best that wasin him, and even now that it was over he

could not quite understand howeverything, everything could go like that;how the Double-Crank and Flora—howthe range, even, had slipped from him.And now Dill was gone, too, and he didnot even know where, or if he would evercome back.

He would pay the men; he had, with asurprising thrift, saved nearly a thousanddollars in the bank at Tower. That, to besure, was when he had Flora to save for;since then he had not had time oropportunity to spend it foolishly. It wouldtake nearly every dollar; the way he hadfigured it, he would have just twenty-threedollars left for himself—and he wouldhave the little bunch of horses he had inhis prosperity acquired for the pure love

of owning a good horse. He would sell thehorses, except Barney and one to pack hisbed, and he would drift—drift just as dothe range-cattle when a blizzard strikesthem in the open. Billy felt like a stray.His range was gone—gone utterly. Hewould roll his bed and drift; and perhaps,somewhere, he could find a stretch ofearth as God had left it, unscarred byfence and plow, undefiled by cabbagesand sugar-beets (Brown's new settlerswere going strong on sugar-beets).

"Well, it's all over but the shouting," hesummed up grimly when Hardup came insight. "I'll pay off the men and turn 'emloose—all but Jim. Somebody's got to staywith the Bridger place till Dilly shows up,seeing that's all he's got left after the

clean-up. The rest uh the debts can wait.Brown's mortgage ain't due yet" (Billy hadhis own way of looking at financialmatters) "and the old Siwash ain't got anykick comin' if he never gets another centout uh Dilly. The bank ain't got the cardsto call Dilly now, for his note ain't due tillnear Christmas. So I reckon all I got to doafter I pay the boys is take m' little oldtwenty-three plunks, and my hosses—if Ican't sell 'em right off—and pull out forGod-knows-where-and-I-don't-care-a-damn!"

Charming Billy Boyle had done all that hehad planned to do, except that he had notyet pulled out for the place he had namedpicturesquely for himself. Much as at the

beginning, he was leaning heavily uponthe bar in the Hardup Saloon, and his hatwas pushed back on his head; but he wasnot hilarious to the point of singing about"the young thing," and he was not, to anyappreciable extent, enjoying himself. Hewas merely adding what he considered theproper finishing touch to his calamities.He was spinning silver dollars, one byone, across the bar to the man with thenear-white apron, and he was endeavoringto get the worth of them down his throat.To be sure, he was being assisted, nowand then, by several acquaintances; butconsidering the fact that a man's stomachhas certain well-defined limitations, hewas doing very well, indeed.

When he had spun the twenty-third dollar

to the bartender, Billy meant to quitdrinking for the present; after that, he wasnot quite clear as to his intentions, fartherthan "forking his hoss and pulling out"when there was no more to be done. Hefelt uneasily that between his presentoccupation and the pulling-out process laya duty unperformed, but until the doorswung open just as he was crying, "Comeon, fellows," he had not been able to nameit.

The Pilgrim it was who entered jauntily;the Pilgrim, who had not chanced to meetBilly once during the summer, and so wasnot aware that the truce between them wasended for good and all. He knew that Billyhad not at any time been what one mightcall cordial, but that last stare of

displeasure when they met in the creek atthe Double-Crank, he had set down to apeevish mood. Under the circumstances, itwas natural that he should walk up to thebar with the rest. Under the circumstances,it was also natural that Billy should objectto this unexpected and unwelcome guest,and that the vague, unperformed dutyshould suddenly flash into his mind clear,and well-defined, and urgent.

"Back up, Pilgrim," was his quiet way ofmaking known his purpose. "Yuh can'tdrink on my money, old-timer, nor use aroom that I'm honoring with my presence.Just right now, I'm here. It's up to you toback out—away out—clean outside andacross the street."

The Pilgrim did not move.

Billy had been drinking, but his brain wasnot of the stuff that fuddles easily, and hewas not, as the Pilgrim believed, drunk.His eyes when he stared hard at thePilgrim were sober eyes, sane eyes—andsomething besides.

"I said it," he reminded softly, when menhad quit shuffling their feet and the roomwas very still.

"I don't reckon yuh know what yuh said,"the Pilgrim retorted, laughing uneasily andshifting his gaze a bit. "What they beendoping yuh with, Bill? There ain't anyquarrel between you and me no more."His tone was abominably,

condescendingly tolerant, and his lookwas the look which a mastiff turns wearilyupon a hysterical toy-terrier yappingfoolishly at his knees. For the Pilgrim hadchanged much in the past year and moreduring which men had respected himbecause he was not considered quite safeto trifle with. According to the reputationthey gave him, he had killed a man whohad tried to kill him, and he couldtherefore afford to be pacific uponoccasion.

Billy stared at him while he drew a longbreath; a breath which seemed to pressback a tangible weight of hatred and uttercontempt for the Pilgrim; a breath while itseemed that he must kill him there andstamp out the very semblance of humanity

from his mocking face.

"Yuh don't know of any quarrel betweenyou and me? Yuh say yuh don't?" Billy'svoice trembled a little, because of themurder-lust that gripped him. "Well, prettysoon, I'll start in and tell yuh all about it—maybe. Right now, I'm going t' give a newone—one that yuh can easy name and dowhat yuh damn' please about." Whereuponhe did as he had done once before whenthe offender had been a sheepherder. Hestepped quickly to one side of the Pilgrim,emptied a glass down inside his collar,struck him sharply across his grinningmouth, and stepped back—back until therewere eight or ten feet between them.

"That's the only way my whisky can go

down your neck!" he said.

Men gasped and moved hastily out ofrange, never doubting what would happennext. Billy himself knew—or thought heknew—and his hand was on his gun, readyto pull it and shoot; hungry—waiting foran excuse to fire.

The Pilgrim had given a bellow that wasno word at all, and whirled to come atBilly; met his eyes, wavered andhesitated, his gun in his hand and half-raised to fire.

Billy, bent on giving the Pilgrim a fairchance, waited another second; waitedand saw fear creep into the bold eyes ofthe Pilgrim; waited and saw the inward

cringing of the man. It was like striking adog and waiting for the spring at yourthroat promised by his snarling defiance,and then seeing the fire go from his eyesas he grovels, cringingly confessing youhis master, himself a cur.

What had been hate in the eyes of Billychanged slowly to incredulous contempt."Ain't that enough?" he cried disgustedly."My God, ain't yuh man enough—Have Igot to take yuh by the ear and slit yourgullet like they stick pigs—or else let yuhgo? What are yuh, anyhow? Shall I givemy gun to the bar-keep and go out whereit's dark? Will yuh be scared to tackle methen?" He laughed and watched the yellowterror creep over the face of the Pilgrim atthe taunt. "What's wrong with your gun?

Ain't it working good to-night? Ain't itloaded?

"Heavens and earth! What else have I gotto do before you'll come alive? You'vebeen living on your rep as a bad man tomonkey with, and pushing out yourwishbone over it for quite a spell, now—why don't yuh get busy and collect anotherbunch uh admiration from these fellows? Iain't no lightning-shot man! Papa Deathdon't roost on the end uh my six-gun—or Inever suspicioned before that he did; butfrom the save-me-quick look on yuh, Ibelieve yuh'd faint plumb away if I let yuhtake a look at the end uh my gun, with thebutt-end toward yuh!

"Honest t' God, Pilgrim, I won't try to get

in ahead uh yuh! I couldn't if I tried,because mine's at m' belt yet and I ain't soswift. Come on! Please—purty please!"Billy looked around the room and laughed.He pointed his finger mockingly "Ain't hea peach of a Bad Man, boys? Ain't yuhproud uh his acquaintance? I reckon I'llhave to turn my back before he'll cutloose. Yuh know, he's just aching t' kill me—only he don't want me to know it whenhe does! He's afraid he might hurt m'feelings!"

He swung back to the Pilgrim, went close,and looked at him impertinently, his headon one side. He reached out deliberatelywith his hand, and the Pilgrim ducked andcringed away. "Aw, look here!" hewhined. "I ain't done nothing to yuh, Bill!"

Billy's hand dropped slowly and hung athis side. "Yuh—damned—coward!" hegritted. "Yuh know yuh wouldn't get anymore than an even break with me, and thatain't enough for yuh. You're afraid to takea chance. You're afraid—God!" he criedsuddenly, swept out of his mockery by therage within. "And I can't kill yuh! Yuhwon't show nerve enough to give me achance! Yuh won't even fight, will yuh?"

He leaned and struck the Pilgrim savagely."Get out uh my sight, then! Get out uhtown! Get clean out uh the country! Get outamong the coyotes—they're nearer yourbreed than men!" For every sentence therewas a stinging blow—a blow with the flatof his hand, driving the Pilgrim back, stepby step, to the door. The Pilgrim,

shielding his head with an uplifted arm,turned then and bolted out into the night.

Behind him were men who stood ashamedfor their manhood, not caring to lookstraight at one another with so sickeningan example before them of the cravencoward a man may be. In the doorway,Billy stood framed against the yellowlamplight, a hand pressing hard against thecasings while he leaned and hurled cursesin a voice half-sobbing with rage.

It was so that Dill found him when hecame looking. When he reached out andlaid a big-knuckled hand gently on hisarm, Billy shivered and stared at him in aqueer, dazed fashion for a minute.

"Why—hello, Dilly!" he said then, and hisvoice was hoarse and broken. "Where thedickens did you come from?"

Without a word Dill, still holding him bythe arm, led him unresisting away.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Oh, Where Have You Been,Charming Billy?

Presently they were in the little roomwhich Dill had kept for himself by thesimple method of buying the shack thatheld it, and Billy was drinking somethingwhich Dill poured out for him and whichsteadied him wonderfully.

"If you are not feeling quite yourself,William, perhaps we would do better topostpone our conversation until morning,"Dill was saying while he rocked

awkwardly, his hands folded looselytogether, his elbows on the rocker—armsand his round, melancholy eyes regardingBilly solemnly. "I wanted to ask how youcame out—with the Double-Crank."

"Go ahead; I'm all right," said Billy. "Iaim to hit the trail by sun-up, so we'll haveour little say now." He made him acigarette and looked wistfully at Dill,while he felt for a match. "Go ahead. Whatdo yuh want to know the worst?"

"Well, I did not see Brown, and itoccurred to me that after I left you musthave gathered more stock than youanticipated. I discovered from the men thatyou have paid them off. I rode out there to-day, you know. I arrived about two hours

after you had left."

"You're still in the hole on the cow-business," Billy stated flatly, as if therewere no use in trying to soften the telling."Yuh owe Brown two thousand odddollars. I turned in a few over twohundred head—I've got it all down here,and yuh can see the exact figure yourself.Yuh didn't show up, and I didn't want tohold the men and let their time run on andnothing doing to make it pay, so I give 'emtheir money and let 'em off—all but JimBleeker. I didn't pay him, because Iwanted him to look after things at theBridger place till yuh got back, and I knewif I give him any money he'd burn the earthgetting to where he could spend it. He's afine fellow when he's broke—Jim is."

"But I owed the men for several months'work. Where did you raise the amount,William?" Dill cleared his throatraspingly.

"Me? Oh, I had some uh my wages savedup. I used that." It never occurred to Billythat he had done anything out of theordinary.

"H-m-m!" Dill cleared his throat againand rocked, his eyes on Billy's moodyface. "I observe, William, that—er—theyare not shipping any skates to—er—hell,yet!"

"Huh?" Billy had not been listening.

"I was saying, William, that I appreciate

your fidelity to my interests, and—"

"Oh, that's all right," Billy cut incarelessly.

"—And I should like to have you with meon a new venture I have in mind. Youprobably have not heard of it here, but it isan assured fact that the railroad companyare about to build a cut-off that will shutout Tower completely and put Hardup onthe main line. In fact, they have actuallystarted work at the other end, and thoughthey are always very secretive about athing like that, I happen to have a friend onthe inside, so that my information isabsolutely authentic. I have raised fiftythousand dollars among my good friendsin Michigan, and I intend to start a first-

class general store here. I have alreadybargained for ten acres of land over thereon the creek, where I feel sure the mainpart of the town will be situated. If youwill come in with me we will form apartnership, equal shares. It is borrowedcapital," he added hastily, "so that I amnot giving you anything, William. Youwill take the same risk I take, and—"

"Sorry, Dilly, but I couldn't come through.Fine counter-jumper I'd make! Thank yuhall the same, Dilly."

"But there is the Bridger place. I shallkeep that and go into thoroughbred stock—good, middle-weight horses, I think,that will find a ready sale among thesettlers who are going to flock in here.

You could take charge there and—"

"No, Dilly, I couldn't. I—I'm thinking uhdrifting down into New Mexico. I—I wantto see that country, bad."

Dill crossed his long legs the other way,let his hands drop loosely, and staredwistfully at Billy. "I really wish I couldinduce you to stay, William," hemurmured.

"Well, yuh can't. I hope yuh come throughbetter than yuh did with the Double-Crank—but I guess it'll be some considerabletime before the towns and the gentlefarmer (damn him!) are crowded to thewall by your damn' Progress." It was thefirst direct protest against changing

conditions which Billy had so far put intowords, and he looked sorry for havingsaid so much. "Oh, here's your little bluebook," he added, feeling it in his pocket."I found it behind the trunk wheneverything else was packed."

"You saw—er—you saw Bridger, then?He is going to take his wife and Flora upNorth with him in the spring. It seems hehas done well."

"I know—he told me."

Dill turned the leaves of the book slowly,and consciously refrained from looking atBilly. "They were about to leave when Iwas there. It is a shame. I am very sorryfor Flora—she does not want to go. If—"

He cleared his throat again and guiltilypretended to be reading a bit, here andthere, and to be speaking casually. "If Iwere a marrying man, I am not sure but Ishould make love to Flora—h-m-m!—this'Bachelor's Complaint' here—have youread it, William? It is very—here, forinstance—'Nothing is to me moredistasteful than the entire complacencyand satisfaction which beam in thecountenances of a new-married couple'—and so on. I feel tempted sometimes whenI look at Flora—only she looks upon meas a—er—piece of furniture—the kindthat sticks out in the way and you have tofeel your way around it in the dark—awkward, but necessary. Poor girl, shecried in the most heartbroken way when Itold her we would not be likely to see her

again, and—I wonder what is the troublebetween her and Walland? They used tobe quite friendly, in a way, but she has notspoken to him, to my certain knowledge,since last spring. Whenever he came to theranch she would go to her room and refuseto come out until he had left. H-m-m! Didshe ever tell you, William?"

"No," snapped William huskily, smokingwith his head bent and turned away.

"I know positively that she cut him dead,as they say, at the last Fourth-of-Julydance. He asked her to dance, and sherefused almost rudely and immediately gotup and danced with that boy ofGunderson's—the one with the hair-lip.She could not have been taken with the

hair-lipped fellow—at least, I shouldscarcely think so. Should you, William?"

This time William did not answer at all.Dill, watching his bent head tenderly,puckered his face into his peculiar smile.

"H-m-m! They stopped at the hotel to-night—Bridgers, I mean. Drove in afterdark from the ranch. They mean to catchthe noon train from Tower to-morrow,Bridger told me. It will be an immensebenefit, William, when those big through-trains get to running through Hardup.There is some talk among the powers-that-be of making this a division point. It willdevelop the country wonderfully. I reallyfeel tempted to cut down my investment ina store for the present, and buy more land.

What do you think, William?"

"Oh, I dunno," said Billy in a let-me-alonekind of tone.

"Well, it's very late. Everybody who laysany claim to respectability should be inhis bed," Dill remarked placidly. "Yousay you start at sunrise? H-m-m! You willhave to call me so that I can go over to thehotel and get the money to refund what youused of your own. I left my cash in thehotel safe. But they will be stirring early—they will have to get the Bridgers off,you know."

It was Dill who lay and smiled quizzicallyinto the dark and listened to the wide-awake breathing of the man beside him—

breathing which betrayed deep emotionheld rigidly in check so far as outwardmovement went. He fell asleep knowingwell that the other was lying there wide-eyed and would probably stay so untilday. He had had a hard day and had donemany things, but what he had done lastpleased him best.

Now this is a bald, unpolished record ofthe morning: Billy saw the dawn come,and rose in the perfect silence he hadlearned from years of sleeping in a tentwith tired men, and of having to get up atall hours and take his turn at night-guarding; for tired, sleeping cowboys donot like to be disturbed unnecessarily, andso they one and all learn speedily theGolden Rule and how to apply it. That is

why Dill, always a light sleeper, did nothear Billy go out.

Billy did not quite know what he wasgoing to do, but habit bade him first feedand water his horse. After that—well, hedid not know. Dill might not have thingsstraight, or he might just be trying to jollyhim up a little, or he might be ameddlesome old granny-gossip. What hadlooked dear and straight, say at threeo'clock in the morning, was at day-dawnhazy with doubt. So he led Barney downto the creek behind the hotel, where in thatprimitive little place they watered theirhorses.

The sun was rising redly, and the hurryingripples were all tipped with gold, and the

sky above a bewildering, tumbled fabricof barbaric coloring. Would the sun riselike that in New Mexico? Billy wondered,and watched the coming of his last dayhere, where he had lived, had loved, haddreamed dreams and builded castles—andhad seen the dreams change to bitterness,and the castles go toppling to ruins. Hewould like to stay with Dill, for he hadgrown fond of the lank, whimsical manwho was like no one Billy had everknown. He would have stayed even in theface of the change that had come to therange-land—but he could not bear to seethe familiar line of low hills whichmarked the Double-Crank and, fartherdown, the line-camp, and know that Florawas gone quite away from him into theNorth.

He caught himself back from brooding,and gave a pull at the halter by way ofhinting to Barney that he need not drink thecreek entirely dry—when suddenly hequivered and stood so still that hescarcely breathed.

"Oh, where have you been, Billy boy,Billy boy?

Oh, where have you been, charmingBilly?"

Some one at the top of the creek-bank wassinging it; some one with an exceedinglysmall, shaky little voice that was trying tobe daring and mocking and indifferent, andthat was none of these things—but onlywistful and a bit pathetic.

Charming Billy, his face quite pale, turnedhis head cautiously as though he feared tooabrupt a glance would drive her away,and looked at her standing there with hergray felt hat tilted against the sun, flippingher gloves nervously against her skirt. Shewas obviously trying to seem perfectly atease, but her eyes were giving the lie toher manner.

Billy tried to smile, but instead his lipsquivered and his eyes blinked.

"I have been to see my wife—"

he began to sing gamely, and stuck there,because something came up in his throatand squeezed his voice to a whisper. Bymain strength he pulled Barney away from

the gold-tipped ripples, and camestumbling over the loose rocks.

She watched him warily, half-turned,ready to run away. "We—I—aren't yougoing to be nice and say good-by to me?"

He came on, staring at her and sayingnothing.

"Well, if you still want to sulk—Iwouldn't be as nasty as that, and—andhold a grudge the way you do—and I wasgoing to be nice and forgiving; but if youdon't care, and don't want—"

By this time he was close—quite close."Yuh know I care! And yuh know I want—you. Oh, girlie, girlie!"

The colors had all left the sky, save blueand silver-gray, and the sun was acommonplace, dazzling ball of yellow.Charming Billy Boyle, his hat set backupon his head at a most eloquent angle,led Barney from the creek up to the stable.His eyes were alight and his brow wasunwrinkled. His lips had quite lost theirbitter lines, and once more had thehumorous, care-free quirk at the corners.

He slammed the stable-door behind himand went off down the street, singingexultantly:

"—I have been to see my-wife,She's the joy of my life—"

He jerked open the door of the shack, gavea whoop to raise the dead, and took Dillungently by the shoulder.

"Come alive, yuh seven-foot Dill-pickle!What yuh want to lay here snoring for atthis time uh day? Don't yuh know it'smorning?"

Dill sat up and blinked, much like an owlin the sunshine. He puckered his face intoa smile. "Aren't you rather uproarious—for so early in the day, William? I wasunder the impression that one usually grewhilarious—"

"Oh, there's other things besides whisky tomake a man feel good," grinned Billy, hischeeks showing a tinge of red. "I'm in a

hurry, Dilly. I've got to hit the trailimmediate—and if it ain't too muchtrouble to let me have that money yuhspoke about—"

Dill got out of bed, eying him shrewdly."Have you been gambling, William?"

Billy ran the green shade up from thewindow so energetically that it slippedfrom his fingers and buzzed noisily at filetop. He craned his neck, trying to see thehotel. "Maybe yuh'd call it that—an oldbachelor like you! Yuh see, Dilly, I've gotbusiness over in Tower. I've got to bethere before noon, and I need—aw,thunder! How's a man going to get marriedwhen he's only got six dollars in hisjeans?"

"I should say that would be scarcelyfeasible, William." Dill was smilingdown at the lacing of his shoes. "We cansoon remedy that, however. I'm—I'm veryglad, William."

The cheeks of Charming Billy Boyle grewquite red. "And, by the way, Dilly," hesaid hurriedly, as if he shied at the subjectof his love and his marriage, "I've changedmy mind about going to New Mexico. I—we'll settle down on the Bridger place, ifyuh still want me to. She says she'd ratherstay here in this country."

Dill settled himself into his clothes, wentover, and laid a hand awkwardly uponBilly's arm, "I am very glad, William," hesaid simply.

THE END.

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