The trapper’s last words to Neale were interesting.  “Son,” he said, “there’s a feller hyar in Medicine Bow who says as how he thought your pard Larry was a bad cowpuncher from the Pan Handle of Texas.”

“Bad?” queried Neale.

“Wal, he meant a gun-throwin’ bad man, I take it.”

“Don’t let Reddy overhear you say it,” replied Neale, “and advise your informant to be careful.  I’ve always had a hunch that Reddy was really somebody.”

“Benton ’ll work on the cowboy,” continued Slingerland, earnestly.  “An’, son, I ain’t so all-fired sure of you.”

“I’ll take what comes,” returned Neale, shortly.  “Good-bye, old friend.  And if you can use us for buffalo-hunting without the ‘dom’ Sooz,’ as Casey says; why, we’ll come.”

After Slingerland departed Neale carried with him a memory of the trapper’s reluctant and wistful good-bye.  It made Neale think—­where were he and Larry going?  Friendships in this wild West were stronger ties than he had known elsewhere.

The train arrived at Benton after dark.  And the darkness seemed a windy gulf out of which roared yellow lights and excited men.  The tents, with the dim lights through the canvas, gleamed pale and obscure, like so much of the life they hid.  The throngs hurried, the dust blew, the band played, the barkers clamored for their trade.

Neale found the more pretentious hotels overcrowded, and he was compelled to go to his former lodgings, where he and Larry were accommodated.

“Now, we’re here, what ’ll we do?” queried Neale, more to himself.  He felt as if driven.  And the mood he hated and feared was impinging upon his mind.

“Shore we’ll eat,” replied Larry.

“Then what?”

“Wal, I reckon we’ll see what’s goin’ on in this heah Benton.”

As a matter of fact, Neale reflected, there was nothing to do that he wanted to do.

“You-all air gettin’ the blues,” said Larry, with solicitude.

“Red, I’m never free of them.”

Larry put his hands on Neale’s shoulder.  Demonstration of this kind was rare in the cowboy.

“Pard, are we goin’ to see this heah Benton, an’ then brace, an’ go back to work?”

“No.  I can’t hold a job,” replied Neale, bitterly.

“You’re showin’ a yellow streak?  You’re done, as you told Slingerland?  Nothin’ ain’t no good? ...  Life’s over, fer all thet’s sweet an’ right?  Is thet your stand?”

“Yes, it must be, Reddy,” said Neale, with scorn of himself.  “But you—­it needn’t apply to you.”

“I reckon I’m sorry,” rejoined Larry, ignoring Neale’s last words.  “I always hoped you’d get over Allie’s loss....  You had so much to live fer.”

“Reddy, I wish the bullet that hit Shane to-day had hit me instead....  You needn’t look like that.  I mean it.  To-day when the Sioux chased us my hair went stiff and my heart was in my mouth.  I ran for my life as if I loved it.  But that was my miserable cowardice....  I’m sick of the game.”