lory which satisfied him.

"Well," Dora asked at last, smiling up at him, "what is it?"

Smith hesitated; then he burst out:

"Girl, do I stack up different to you nor anybody else? Have you any
feelin' for me at all?"

"Why, I think I've shown my interest in trying to teach you," she replied,
a little abashed by his vehemence.

"What do you want to teach me for?" he demanded.

"Because," Dora declared, "you have possibilities."

"Why don't you teach Meeteetse Ed and Tubbs?"

Dora laughed aloud.

"Candidly, I think it would be a waste of time. They could never hope to
be much more than we see them here. And they are content as they are."

"So was I, girl, until our trails crossed. I could ride without grub all
day, and sing. I could sleep on a saddle-blanket like a tired pup, with
only a rock for a wind-break and my saddle for a pillow. Now I can't sleep
in a bed. It's horrible--this mixed up feelin'--half the time wantin' to
holler and laugh and the other half wantin' to cry."

"I don't see why you should feel like that," said Dora gravely. "You are
getting along. It's slow, but you're learning."

"Oh, yes, I'm learnin'," Smith answered grimly--"fast."

He saw her wondering look and went on fiercely.

"Girl, don't you see what I mean? Don't you _sabe_? My feelin' for you is
more nor friendship. I can't tell you how I feel. It's nothin' I ever had
before, but I've heard of it a-plenty. It's love--that's what it is! I've
seen it, too, a-plenty.

"There's two things in the world a feller'll go through hell for--just
two: love and gold. I don't mean money, but gold--the pure stuff. They'll
waller through snow-drifts, they'll swim rivers with the ice runnin',
they'll crawl through canyons and over trails on their hands and knees,
they'll starve and they'll freeze, they'll work till the blood runs from
their blistered hands, they'll kill their horses and their pardners, for
gold! And they'll do it for love. Yes, I've seen it a-plenty, me--Smith.

"Things I've done, I've done, and they don't worry me none," he went on,
"but lately I've thought of Dutch Joe. I worked him over for singin' a
love-song, and I wisht I hadn't. He'd held up a stage, and was cached in
my camp till things simmered down. It was lonesome, and I'd want to talk;
but he'd sit back in the dark, away from the camp-fire, and sing to
himself about 'ridin' to Annie.' How the miles wasn't long or the trail
rough if only he was 'ridin' to Annie.