“Concernin’ the general direction of the N. P., I’ll enlighten you that if you was to line out straight for Texas, it would be the first railroad you’d cross.  But you wouldn’t never cross it because interposed between it an’ here is a right smart stretch of country which for want of a worse name is called the bad lands.  They’s some several thousan’ square miles in which there’s only seven water-holes that a man can drink out of, an’ generally speakin’ about five of them is dry.  There’s plenty of water-holes but they’re poison.  Some is gyp an’ some is arsnic.  Also these here bad lands ain’t laid out on no general plan.  The coulees run hell-west an’ crossways at their littlest end an’ wind up in a mud crack.  There ain’t no trails, an’ the inhabitants is renegades an’ horse-thieves which loves their solitude to a murderous extent.  If a man ain’t acquainted with the country an’ the horse-thieves, an’ the water-holes, his sojourn would be discouragin’ an’ short.

“All of which circumlocutin’ brings us to the main point which is that she wouldn’t stand for no such proceedin’.  As far as I can see that settles the case.  The pros an’ cons that you an’ me could set here an’ chew about, bein’ merely incidental, irreverent, an’ by way of passin’ the time.”

Endicott laughed:  “You are a philosopher, Tex.”

“A cow-hand has got to be.”

“But seriously, I could slip away without her knowing it, then the only thing you could do would be to take her to the railway.”

“Yes.  Well, you try that an’ you’ll find out who’s runnin’ this outfit.  I’ll trail out after you an’ when I catch you, I’ll just naturally knock hell out of you, an’ that’s all there’ll be to it.  You had the edge on me in the water but you ain’t on land.  An’ now that’s settled to the satisfaction of all parties concerned, suppose me an’ you slip over to camp an’ cook supper so we can pull out right after sundown.”

The two made their way through the timber to find Alice blowing herself red in the face in a vain effort to coax a blaze out of a few smouldering coals she had scraped from beneath the ashes of the fire.

“Hold on!” cried the Texan, striding toward her, “I’ve always maintained that buildin’ fires is a he-chore, like swearin’, an’ puttin’ the baby to sleep.  So, if you’ll just set to one side a minute while I get this fire a-goin’ an’ Win fetches some water, you can take holt an’ do the cookin’ while we-all get the outfit ready for the trail.”

Something in the man’s voice caused the girl to regard him sharply, and her eyes shifted for a moment to his companion who stood in the background.  There was no flash of recognition in the glance, and Endicott, suppressing a laugh, turned his face away, picked up the water pail, and started toward the creek.

“Who is that man?” asked the girl, a trifle nervously, as he disappeared from view.

“Who, him?” The Texan was shaving slivers from a bull pine stick.  “He’s a friend of mine.  Win’s his name, an’ barrin’ a few little irregularities of habit, he ain’t so bad.”  The cowboy burst into mournful song as he collected his shavings and laid them upon the coals: