Tex rolled a cigarette.  “Say,” he drawled, when he had lighted it with a twig from the fire, “what the hell did you whallop me in the jaw for?  I seen it comin’ but I couldn’t dodge, an’ when she hit—­it seemed like I was all tucked away in my little crib, an’ somewhere, sweet voices was singin’.”

“I had to do it,” laughed Endicott.  “It was that, or both of us going to the bottom.  You were grabbing for my arms and legs.”

“I ain’t holdin’ it against you,” grinned Tex.  “The arms an’ legs is yours, an’ you’re welcome to ’em.  Also I’m obliged to you for permittin’ me to tarry a spell longer on this mundane spear, as the fellow says, even if I can’t chew nothin’ harder’n soup.”

“Would you mind rolling me a cigarette,” grinned Endicott, as he finished the last of the biscuits.  “I never tried it, and I am afraid I would bungle the job.”  Without hesitation the Texan complied, deftly interposing his body so that the pilgrim could not see that the tobacco he poured into the paper was the last in his sack.  He extended the little cylinder.  “When you get that lit, you better crawl into them clothes of yours an’ we’ll be hittin’ the back-trail.  Out here in the open ain’t no place for us to be.”

Endicott surveyed his sorry outfit with disfavour.  “I would rather stick to the B.V.D.’s, if it were practical.”

“B.V.D., B.V.D.,” repeated the Texan.  “There ain’t no such brand on this range.  Must be some outfit south of here—­what did you say about it?”

“I said my B.V.D.’s,” he indicated his under-garments; “these would be preferable to those muddy trousers and that shirt.”

“Oh, that’s the brand of your longerie.  Don’t wear none myself, except in winter, an’ then thick ones.  I’ve scrutinized them kind, though, more or less thorough—­hangin’ on lines around nesters’ places an’ home ranches, when I’d be ridin’ through.  Never noticed none with B.V.D. on ’em, though.  The brand most favoured around here has got XXXX FLOUR printed acrost the broad of ’em, an’ I’ve always judged ’em as belongin’ to the opposin’ sect.”

Endicott chuckled as he gingerly arrayed himself in the damp garments and when he was dressed, Tex regarded him quizzically:  “Them belongin’s of yourn sure do show neglect, Win.”  Endicott started at the word.  It was the first time any one had abbreviated his name, and instantly he remembered the words of Alice Marcum:  “If you keep on improving some day somebody is going to call you Win.”  He smiled grimly.  “I must be improving,” he muttered, under his breath, “I would pass anywhere for a tramp.”  From beyond the fire Tex continued his scrutiny, the while he communed with himself:  “Everything’s fair, et cetry, as the fellow says, an’ it’s a cinch there ain’t no girl goin’ to fall no hell of a ways for any one rigged out like a last year’s sheepherder.  But, damn it! he done me a good turn—­an’ one that took guts to do.  ’Tain’t no use in chasin’