the devil around the stump——­ If I can get that girl I’m a-goin’ to get her!  If I do I’ll wire in some creek an’ turn nester or do any other damned thing that’s likewise mean an’ debasin’ that she wants me to—­except run sheep.  But if the pilgrim’s got the edge, accordin’ to Bat’s surmise, he’s got it fair an’ square.  The cards is on the table.  It’s him or me for it—­but from now on the game’s on the level.”

Aloud he said:  “Hope you don’t mind havin’ your name took in vain like I done, but it’s a habit of mine to get names down to a workin’ basis when I’ve got to use ’em frequent.  Bat, there, his folks started him off with a name that sounded like the Nicene Creed, but we bobbed her down for handy reference, an’ likewise I ain’t be’n called Horatio since the paternal roof-tree quit sproutin’ the punitive switch.  But, to get down to cases, you fellows have got to hike back to the camp an’ hole up ’til dark.  There’s bound to be someone ridin’ this here coulee an’ you got to keep out of sight.  I’m goin’ to do a little scoutin’, an’ I’ll join you later.  It ain’t only a couple of miles or so an’ you better hit for the high ground an’ cross the divide.  Don’t risk goin’ through the canyon.”

Endicott glanced apprehensively at his mud encased silk socks, the feet of which were already worn through in a dozen places.

“Where’s your slippers!” asked Tex, catching the glance.

“My shoes?  I threw them away last night before I took to the water.”

“It’s just as well.  They wasn’t any good anyhow.  The ground’s soft with the rain, all you got to watch out for is prickly pears an’ rattlesnakes.  You’ll be close to camp before the rocks get bad an’ then Bat can go hunt up your slippers an’ fetch ’em out to you.”  The Texan started for his horse.  At the top of the ridge he turned:  “I’ll stop an’ tell her that you’ll be along in a little bit,” he called, and swinging into the saddle, struck off up the creek.

The habitual cynical smile that curled his lips broadened as he rode.  “This here Johnson, now, he likes me like he likes a saddle-galded boil, ever since I maintained that a rider was hired to ride, an’ not to moil, an’ quit his post-hole-diggin’, hay-pitchin’, tea-drinkin’ outfit, short-handed.  I ain’t had no chance to aggravate him real good, outside of askin’ him how his post-holes was winterin’ through, when I’d meet up with him on the trail, an’ invitin’ him to go over to the Long Horn to have a snort of tea, a time or two, down to Wolf River.”

At the up-slanting bank where they had sought refuge from the valley he dismounted, wrenched his own saddle out of the mud, and examined the broken cinch.  “If the pilgrim hadn’t saved me the trouble, I’d of sure had to get Purdy for that,” he muttered, and looked up to encounter the eyes of the girl, who was watching him from the top of the bank.  Her face was very white, and the sight stirred a strange discomfort within him.  “I bet she wouldn’t turn no such colour for me, if I’d be’n drowned for a week,” he thought, bitterly.