“You’ll want to be drivin’ over to the station later?” “Red” went on, coming to the table, and taking off his spurs.

“Yes,” Gilbert answered.  He had folded all the blankets neatly, rose, and went over to the window-box to get some strong cord.

“In the gallopin’ wash-boiler?” “Red” smiled, “That still belongs to us—­I mean, you.”  He clinked his spurs on the table.

“Us is right, ‘Red.’  You said you’d been a partner.  You have.  Some day I’m going to tell you how grateful I am.”  In his preoccupation, he forgot to tie up the blankets; and, one hand on “Red’s” shoulder, he let the cord fall on the table.

“Aw, that’s all right,” “Red” said.  He didn’t like to be thanked, and he avoided even the shadow of sentimentality with Jones.  After all, they were two young fellows, playing a big game together, taking big chances; and what was the use of talking about it?  “What are you going to tell the Pells?” he suddenly asked, glad to get off the immediate subject.

“Pells?”

“Say, I’m goin’ to poke that bird in the beak some day!” “Red” declared.

Jones smiled.  “What’s he done to you?”

“Nothin’.  He’d better not.  It’s the way he treats his wife.  She’s so darn game, too.  I wouldn’t treat a horse the way he treats her.  Well, what are you goin’ to tell them?”

Gilbert stood perfectly still.  He was in deep thought.  Finally he spoke.

“I’m going to tell them I’m going away—­important business.”

“East?” “Red” asked.  He had seated himself at the table, and picked up Gilbert’s pen, and began making curious little scrawls with it on a piece of paper, as a business man sometimes does when he is telephoning.

“No.  West,” answered Jones.  “They’re going East.”

“What are you going to do?” “Red” was amused rather than alarmed.

“Oh, I’ll get a job somewhere.  Punch cows—­or maybe join the rangers.  There’s always something a fellow can do.”

“An’ what about your uncle?”

“I’ll put him up in Bisbee till I get a chance to ship him back to Bangor.  He likes Bangor, you know!” Gilbert smiled.

“He takes it sort o’ hard, don’t he?”

“Well, you can’t blame the old boy.  You see, I got him to sell out everything—­everything, and invest in this ranch.  Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do; but I thought I was certain to succeed.  I meant all for the best, ‘Red.’  You know that.”  Who could doubt those gray eyes of Gilbert Jones, that open, frank, boyish face?

“Of course I do.”  He got up, and walked over to the window.  “Your uncle don’t like jokin’ much, does he?  I asked him the other day why he didn’t get a chauffeur.  Gosh! he got mad!” “Red” laughed at the recollection.

“Uncle Henry’s in no joking mood just now.  You can’t blame him much.”

“Red” turned and looked at his employer.  He didn’t know whether he should ask the next question or not; but he took his courage in his hands.