“You couldn’t guess,” he suggested, “but there was someone who could guess for you.  Someone who pretty well knew we were in town, who wanted to keep you away from Bill because he was afraid—­”

“Of what?” she demanded sharply.

“Afraid of losing you.”

This seemed to frighten her.  “What do you know?” she asked.

“I know this,” he answered, “that I think a girl like you, all in all, is too good for any man.  But, if any man ought to have her, it’s the gent that is fondest of her.  And Bill is terrible fond of you, lady—­he don’t think of nothing else.  He’s grown thin as a ghost, longing for you.”

“So he sends another man to risk his life to find me and tell me about it?” she demanded, between anger and sadness.

“He didn’t send me—­I just came.  But the reason I came was because I knew Bill would give up without a fight.”

“I hate a man who won’t fight,” said the girl.

“It’s because he figures he’s so much beneath you,” said Ronicky.  “And, besides, he can’t talk about himself.  He’s no good at that at all.  But, if it comes to fighting, lady, why, he rode a couple of hosses to death and stole another and had a gunfight, all for the sake of seeing you, when a train passed through a town.”

She was speechless.

“So I thought I’d come,” said Ronicky Doone, “and tell you the insides of things, the way I knew Bill wouldn’t and couldn’t, but I figure it don’t mean nothing much to you.”

She did not answer directly.  She only said:  “Are men like this in the West?  Do they do so much for their friends?”

“For a gent like Bill Gregg, that’s simple and straight from the shoulder, they ain’t nothing too good to be done for him.  What I’d do for him he’d do mighty pronto for me, and what he’d do for me—­well, don’t you figure that he’d do ten times as much for the girl he loves?  Be honest with me,” said Ronicky Doone.  “Tell me if Bill means anymore to you than any stranger?”

“No—­yes.”

“Which means simply yes.  But how much more, lady?”

“I hardly know him.  How can I say?”

“It’s sure an easy thing to say.  You’ve wrote to him.  You’ve had letters from him.  You’ve sent him your picture, and he’s sent you his, and you’ve seen him on the street.  Lady, you sure know Bill Gregg, and what do you think of him?”

“I think—­”

“Is he a square sort of gent?”

“Y-yes.”

“The kind you’d trust?”

“Yes, but—­”

“Is he the kind that would stick to the girl he loved and take care of her, through thick and thin?”

“You mustn’t talk like this,” said Caroline Smith, but her voice trembled, and her eyes told him to go on.

“I’m going back and tell Bill Gregg that, down in your heart, you love him just about the same as he loves you!”

“Oh,” she asked, “would you say a thing like that?  It isn’t a bit true.”