The Texan grinned:  “Go get your mares, Curt.  The short-horn has stampeded.  I shouldn’t wonder if he’s a-foggin’ it through the mountains right now to get himself plumb famous for tippin’ off the district attorney where to do his minin’.”

“You seen him!”

“Yes, we had quite a little pow-wow.”

“You sure didn’t let him git holt of nothin’!”

“Yes.  He’s about to bust with the information he gathered.  An’ say, he might of seen them mares an’ passed ’em up.  He ain’t huntin’ no brood mares, he’s after twenty head of young saddle stock—­forgot to mention there was any one with him.  Said it was easy to run three-year-olds off their own range single handed if you savvied horses.  Called Mister Kester ‘Old Pete’ an’ told of an orgy they had mutual in the Long Horn.”

Curt burst out laughing:  “Can you beat it?”

“I suppose they’ll have Red Rock Coulee all mussed up,” reflected the Texan, with a grin.

“You wait ’til I tell the boys.”

“Don’t you.  They’d hurt him.  He’s a-whirlin’ a bigger loop than he can throw, the way it is.”

Curt fumbled in his slicker and produced a flask which he tendered.

Tex shook his head:  “No thanks, I ain’t drinkin’.”

“You ain’t what?”

“No, I’m off of it”; he dismounted and tightened his cinch, and the other followed his example.

“Off of it!  You ain’t sick, or nothin’?”

“No.  Can’t a man——?”

“Oh, sure, he could, but he wouldn’t, onless—­you got your camp near here?”

Tex was aware the other was eyeing him closely.

“Tolerable.”

“Let’s go camp then.  I left my pack horse hobbled way up on Last Water.”

The Texan was thinking rapidly.  Curt was a friend of long standing and desired to share his camp, which is the way of the cow country.  Yet, manifestly this was impossible.  There was only one way out and that was to give offence.

“No.  I’m campin’ alone these days.”

A slow red mounted to the other’s face and his voice sounded a trifle hard:  “Come on up to mine, then.  It ain’t so far.”

“I said I was campin’ alone.”

The red was very apparent now, and the other took a step forward, and his words came slowly: 

“Peck Maguire told me, an’ I shut his dirty mouth for him.  But now I know it’s true.  You’re ridin’ with the pilgrim’s girl.”

At the inference the Texan whitened to the eyes. “You’re a damned liar!” The words came evenly but with a peculiar venom.

Curt half drew his gun.  Then jammed it back in the holster.  “Not between friends,” he said shortly, “but jest the same you’re goin’ to eat them words.  It ain’t a trick I’d think of you—­to run off with a man’s woman after killin’ him.  If he was alive it would be different.  I’d ort to shoot it out with you, I suppose, but I can’t quite forget that time in Zortman when you——­”