wus bright, an'
nothin' seemed amiss wi' life nor nothin'. But I tell you it ain't no
good. No, sir, 'tain't no good, 'cos I ain't got the guts to git up
an' dig hard. I've reached out an' pulled a weed or two, but them
weeds had got a holt on that bed 'fore I sot the seedlin', an' they've
growed till my pore flower is nigh to be choked. 'Tain't no use
watchin' when weeds is growin'. It wants a feller as can dig; an' I
guess I ain't that feller. Say, ther's mighty hard diggin' to be done
right now, an' the feller as does it has got to do it standin' right
up to the job. Savee? I'm sayin' right now to you, Tresler, them weeds
is chokin' the life out o' her. She's mazed up wi' 'em. Ther' ain't no
escape. None. Her life's bound to be hell anyways."

"Her? Whom?" Tresler asked the question, but he knew that Joe was
referring to Diane; Diane's welfare was his other interest in life.

The little man turned with a start "Eh? Miss Dianny--o' course."

"And the weeds?"

"Jake--an' her father."

And the two men became silent, while their horses ambled leisurely on
toward home. It was Tresler who broke the silence at last.

"And this is the reason you've stayed so long on the ranch?" he asked.

"Mebbe. I don't reckon as I could 'a' done much," Joe answered
hopelessly. "What could a drunken choreman do anyways? Leastways the
pore kid hadn't got no mother, an' I guess ther' wa'n't a blazin' soul
around as she could yarn her troubles to. When she got fixed, I guess
ther' wa'n't no one to put her right. And when things was hatchin',
ther' wa'n't no one to give her warnin' but me. 'What is the trouble?'
you ast," the little man went on gloomily. "Trouble? Wal, I'd smile.
Ther' ain't nothin' but trouble around M'skeeter Bend, sure. Trouble
for her--trouble all round. Her trouble's her father, an' Jake. Jake's
set on marryin' her. Jake," in a tone of withering scorn, "who's only
fit to mate wi' a bitch wolf. An' her father--say, he hates her. Hates
her like a neche hates a rattler. An' fer why? Gawd only knows; I
ain't never found out. Say, that gal is his slave, sure. Ef she raises
her voice, she gits it. Not, I guess, as Jake handles me, but wi' the
sneakin' way of a devil. Say, the things he does makes me most ready
to cry like a kid. An' all the time he threatens her wi' Jake fer a
husband. An' she don't never complain. Not she; no sir. You don't know
the blind hulks, Tresler; but ther', it ain't no use in gassin'. He
don't n