Alice rose and put on her hat:  “Come on, let’s get out of this hateful stuffy little room.  Let’s walk and enjoy this wonderful air while we can.  And besides, we must find some flowers—­wild flowers they must be for our wedding, mustn’t they, dear?  Wild flowers, right from God’s own gardens—­wild, and free, and uncultivated—­untouched by human hands.  I saw some lovely ones, blue and white, and some wild-cherry blossoms, too, down beside that little creek that crosses the trail almost at the edge of the town.”  Together they walked to the creek that burbled over its rocky bed in the shadow of the bull-pine forest from which Timber City derived its name.  Deeper and deeper into the pines they went, stopping here and there to gather the tiny white and blue blossoms, or to break the bloom-laden twigs from the low cherry bushes.  As they rounded a huge upstanding rock, both paused and involuntarily drew back.  There, in the centre of a tiny glade that gave a wide view of the vast sweep of the plains, with their background of distant mountains, stood the Texan, one arm thrown across the neck of his horse, and his cheek resting close against the animal’s glossy neck.  For a moment they watched as he stood with his eyes fixed on the far horizon.

“Go back a little way,” whispered Endicott.  “I want to speak with him.”  The girl obeyed, and he stepped boldly into the open.

“Tex!”

The man whirled.  “What you doin’ here?” his face flushed red, then, with an effort, he smiled, as his eyes rested upon the blossoms.  “Pickin’ posies?”

“Yes,” answered Endicott, striving to speak lightly, “for a very special occasion.  We are to be married at half-past four, and we want you to be there—­just you, and Bat, and the parson.  I hunted the town for you and when I found your horse gone I—­we thought you had ridden away without even saying good-bye.”

“No,” answered the cowboy slowly, “I didn’t do that.  I was goin’ back—­just for a minute—­at stage time.  But, it’s better this way.  In rooms—­like at dinner, I ain’t at home, any more.  It’s better out here in the open.  I won’t go to your weddin’.  Damn it, man, I can’t!  I’m more than half-savage, I reckon.  By the savage half of me, I ought to kill you.  I ought to hate you—­but I can’t.  About a lot of things you’re green as hell.  You can’t shoot, nor ride, nor rope, nor do hardly any other damn thing a man ought to do.  But, at that, you whirl a bigger loop than I do.  You’ve got the nerve, an’ the head, an’ the heart.  You’re a man.  The girl loves you.  An’ I love her.  My God, man!  More than all the world, I love the woman who is to be your wife—­an’ I have no right to!  I tell you I’m half-savage!  Take her, an’ go!  Go fast, an’ go a long time!  I never want to hear of you again.  But—­I can still say—­good luck!” he extended his hand and Endicott seized it.

“I shall be sorry to think that we are never to meet again,” he said simply.