“The outfit’s on the way in,” answered Billy, accepting noncommittally the meat and the overture for peace.  “They’ll be here in less than an hour.”

If the Pilgrim wanted peace, he was thinking rapidly, what grounds had he for ignoring the truce?  He himself had been the aggressor and he also had been the victor.  According to the honor of fighting men, he should be generous.  And when all was said and done—­and the thought galled Billy more than he could understand—­the offense of the Pilgrim had been extremely intangible; it had consisted almost wholly of looks and a tone or two, and he realized quite plainly that his own dislike of the Pilgrim had probably colored his judgment.  Anyway, he had thrashed the Pilgrim and driven him away from camp and killed his dog.  Wasn’t that enough?  And if the Pilgrim chose to forget the unpleasant circumstances of their parting and be friends, what could he do but forget also?  Especially since the girl did not appear to be holding any grudge for what had passed between them in the line-camp.  Billy, buttering a biscuit with much care, wished he knew just what had happened that night before he opened the door, and wondered if he dared ask her.

Under all his thoughts and through all he hated the Pilgrim, his bold blue eyes, his full, smiling lips and smooth cheeks, as he had never hated him before; and he hated himself because, being unable to account even to himself for his feelings toward the Pilgrim, he was obliged to hide his hate and be friends—­or else act the fool.  And above all the mental turmoil he was somehow talking and listening and laughing now and then, as if there were two of him and each one was occupied with his own affairs.  “I wisht to thunder there was three uh me,” he thought fleetingly during a pause.  “I’d set the third one uh me to figuring out just where the girl stands in this game, and what she’s thinking about right now.  There’s a kinda twinkling in her eyes, now and then when she looks over here, that sure don’t line up with her innocent talk.  I wisht I could mind-read her—­

“Yes, we didn’t get through none too soon.  Looks a lot like we’re going to get our first slice uh winter.  We’ve been playing big luck that we didn’t get it before now; and that last bunch uh beef was sure rollicky and hard to handle—­we’d uh had a picnic with all the trimmings if a blizzard had caught us with them on our hands.  As it is, we’re all dead on our feet.  I expect to sleep about four days without stopping for meals, if you ask me.”

One cannot wonder that Charming Billy heard thankfully the clatter of his outfit arriving, or that he left half his piece of pie uneaten and hurried off, on the plea that he must show them what to do—­which would have caused a snicker among the men if they had overheard him.  He did not mind Dill following him out, nor did he greatly mind the Pilgrim remaining in the house with Miss Bridger.  The relief of being even temporarily free from the perplexities of the situation mastered all else and sent him whistling down the path to the stables.