ime--"but I had a
sweetheart once, over forty years ago now, down in Kansas, and she was
all right, you bet. Why, sir, she was--oh! well, 'taint no use talkin',
but I went to church for the year I knowed her more'n all the rest of
my life put together, and was shapin' out for a different line of
conduct until--" Shock waited in silence. "After she died I didn't seem
to care. I went out to California, knocked about, and then to the devil
generally." Shock's eyes began to shine.

"I know," he said, "you had no one else to look after--to think of."

"None that I cared a blank for. Beg pardon. So I drifted round, dug for
gold a little, ranched a little, Just like now, gambled a little, sold
whisky a little, nothing very much. Didn't seem to care much, and don't
yet."

Shock sat waiting for him to continue, but hardly knew what to say. His
heart was overflowing with pity for this lonely old man whose life lay
in the past, grey and colourless, except for that single bright spot
where love had made its mark. Suddenly he stretched out his hand toward
the old man, and said: "What you want is a friend, a real good friend."

The old man took his hand in a quick, fierce grip, his hard, withered
face lit up with a soft, warm light.

"Stranger," he said, trying hard to keep his voice steady, "I'd give
all I have for one."

"Let me tell you about mine," said Shock quickly.

Half an hour later, as Bill stood looking after Shock and rubbing his
fingers, he said in soliloquy: "Well, I guess I'm gittin' old. What in
thunder has got into me, anyway? How'd he git me on to that line? Say,
what a bunco steerer he'd make! And with that face and them eyes of
his! No, 'taint that. It's his blank honest talk. Hang if I know what
it is, but he's got it! He's white, I swear! But blank him! he makes a
fellow feel like a thief."

Bill went back to his lonely ranch with his lonely miserable life,
unconsciously trying to analyse his new emotions, some of which he
would be glad to escape, and some he would be loath to lose. He stood
at his door a moment, looking in upon the cheerless jumble of boxes and
furniture, and then turning, he gazed across the sunny slopes to where
he could see his bunch of cattle feeding, and with a sigh that came
from the deepest spot in his heart, he said: "Yes, I guess he's right.
It's a friend I need. That's what."

VII

THE OUTPOST

Upon a slight swell of prairie stood the Outpost manse of Big River,