ot_ to see it through."

The grub-liners raised their eyes in surprise, for there was unmistakable
ill-feeling in her voice. It was unlike her, this antagonistic attitude
toward a stranger, for, as they all knew, her hospitality was unlimited,
and every passer-by whose horse fed at the big hayrack was regarded and
treated as a welcome friend.

There was rarely malice behind the sharp personalities which she flung at
random about the table. Knowing no social distinctions, Susie was no
respecter of persons. She chaffed and flouted the man who wintered a
thousand head of cattle with the same impartiality with which she gibed
his blushing cowpuncher. Her good-nature was a byword, as were her
generosity and boyish daring. Susie MacDonald was a local celebrity in her
way, and on the big hay-ranch her lightest word was law.

But the mere presence of this new-comer seemed to fill her with
resentment, making of her an irrepressible young shrew who gloated openly
in his angry confusion.

"Speakin' of Yellow-backs," said Meeteetse, with the candid intent of
being tactful, "reminds me of a song a pardner of mine wrote up about 'em
once. Comical? _T'--t'--t'--!_" He wagged his head as if he had no words
in which to describe its incomparable humor. "He had another song that was
a reg'lar tear-starter: 'Whar the Silver Colorady Wends Its Way.' Ever
hear it? It's about a feller that buried his wife by the silver Colorady,
and turned outlaw. This pardner of mine used to beller every time he sung
it. He cried like he was a Mormon, and he hadn't no more wife than a jack
rabbit."

"Some songs is touchin'," agreed Arkansaw Red.

"This was," declared Meeteetse. "How she faded day by day, till a pale,
white corp' she lay! If I hadn't got this cold on me----"

"I hate to see you sufferin', Meeteetse, but if it keeps you from
warblin'----"

He ignored Susie's implication, and went on serenely:

"Looks like it's settled on me for life, and it all comes of tryin' not to
be a hog."

"I hope it'll be a lesson to you," said Susie soberly.

"That there Bar C cowpuncher, Babe, comes over the other night, and, the
bunk-house bein' full, I offers him half my blankets. I never put in such
a night since I froze to death on South Pass. For fair, I'd ruther sleep
with a two-year-ole steer--couldn't kick no worse than that Babe. Why them
blankets was in the air more'n half the time, with him pullin' his way,
and me snatchin' of 'em back. Finally