arose, still with the same appearance of deliberation, and inspected the pony thoroughly, with the eye and movements of an expert.
"Others as good?" he inquired.
"Bettaire," assured Lafond.
"Wagon?" pursued the laconic Buckley.
"Bobtail," responded Lafond with equal brevity. Though young, he already possessed some shrewdness in the reading of character.
Buckley sat down in the shade and relit his pipe.
"Where are you from?" he asked bluntly.
"Ontario."
"Woods?"
"Yes."
"Thought you wasn't no tenderfoot. Ever hit the trail?"
"Not on those plains. In the woods many times."
"We ain't takin' but damn few," went on Buckley dissertatively, "and them that goes has to be right on to their job. No women; good cattle. That's our motto. Reckon you-all fills the bill. Cyan't tell. Got to ask the others."
Lafond knew that this, from a man of Buckley's stamp, was distinct encouragement. At the moment, the other two members came up. Buckley, in a few words, told them of the newcomer's desires and qualifications.
Billy looked him over briefly.
"Yo're a breed, ain't yo'?" he inquired with refreshing directness. "I thought so." He turned to Buckley, with the air of ignoring Lafond altogether. "That bars him," he said, with a little laugh.
"He's got a mighty good line of broncs," Buckley objected.
"Don't care if his hosses are good," stated Billy decidedly. "He's a breed, an' that's enough. I seen plenty of that crew, and I ain't goin' to have one in the same country with me, if I can help it, let alone the same outfit."
He began to whistle and rummage in the back of the wagon, with a charming obliviousness to the presence of the subject of his remarks.
"That settles it," said Buckley, curtly and indifferently.
The half-breed, his nervous hands deep in his side-pockets, walked slowly to his horse. Then, in sudden access of rapid motion, he leaped on the animal's back and disappeared.
II
THE WOMAN
Barely had the dust of the half-breed's sudden departure sifted from the air, when Buckley arose and announced his intention of "taking a little look round." He was gone two hours, and returned looking solemn and earnest. Billy and Alfred were cooking things over a small fire. Buckley spat in a propitiatory manner toward seven small bushes, and conversationally informed the northwest corner of the canvas top on a nearby schooner that he, Jim Buckley, had decided to take along a woman.
Billy and Alfred thereupon spilled the coffee, and could not believe their ears.
"She's goin', if I have to take her by myself," Buckley concluded. And then Alfred and Billy looked up into his face, and saw that he was in earnest.
Alfred turned pink and wriggled the bacon, trying immediately to think how he was going to make the best of this. It did not look easy.
Billy Knapp exploded.
"You go to hell!" was his method of objection.
"She goes," repeated Jim, with even greater quietness of manner. "An' if you-all don' like it, why, jest say so. I quits. You got to have her, if you have me."
"I'd jest like to know why," complained Billy, a little sobered at this threat.
Whereupon Jim found himself utterly at a loss. He had not thought as far as that. He suddenly appreciated the logical weakness of his position; but then, again, intuitively, he realized more subtly its strength. So he said not a word, but arose lightly, and brought unto them the woman herself.
She was a sweet little woman, with deep, trusting blue eyes, and she accompanied Jim without a thought of the opposition she had excited. Jim merely told her she was to meet the other two men. She intended only to show her appreciation of their kindness.
She approached the fire, and assumed her most gracious manner.
"I want to thank you both, as well as Mr. Buckley, for being so good to me," she began, with real feeling. "I know how hard it is for you to take me just now, and I appreciate it more than I can say. I don't know what we would have done. You need not be afraid that we shall be much trouble, for we will all be brave, and not murmur. Your goodness has made me very happy, and I am going to pray to God for you to-night," said the little Puritan with simple reverence. It meant a great deal to her.
Alfred, as usual, was wrigglingly shy. Billy Knapp several times opened his mouth to object, but somehow closed it slowly each time without having objected. The woman saw. She thought it meant that her presence embarrassed them both, so with true tact she wished them a gentle good-night, and went away.
The three looked at one another.
"Well?" asked Jim defiantly.
Billy coughed. He spat in the fire. He exploded. "Damn it! She goes!" he roared with the voice of a bull.
They both looked expectantly toward Alfred. Alfred nodded his head. He was wondering how long it had been since anyone had prayed for him.
"Thar is a man with her," remarked Jim, after a moment's silence. "He's a tenderfoot. And a kid. The kid has blue eyes, too," he added irrelevantly.
"The camp'll be mighty riled," put in Alfred.
"Let's go see the tenderfoot," suggested the practical Billy.
They dropped everything, and went over to the "hotel," where they viewed the woman's husband at a safe distance. He was a slight, bent man, with near-sighted eyes behind thick spectacles, straight, light hair, and a peering, abstracted expression of countenance. He wore a rather shiny frock coat.
"Gee Christmas!" ejaculated Billy, and laughed loudly.
Alfred shook his head.
Jim looked grave.
They returned to camp, and began to discuss the question of ways and means. There would surely be trouble when the affair became known. The inclusion of a tenderfoot from Chicago, on account of his pinto team, had almost resulted in a riot of the rejected. Not one of the three was fatuous enough to imagine for a moment that Jack Snowie, for instance, who had been refused because he wanted to take his wife, would exactly rejoice over the scouts' decision. In fact, Jack had a rather well-developed sense of injustice, and a summary method of showing it. And he was by no means alone.
Jim agreed to transport the three in his schooner, which was one point well settled. Billy suggested at least a dozen absurd
