m to, and I'm dead sure he'd never think about it
afterward. But that's just the sort of a man who gets knocked plumb
out when a woman does hit him. It wouldn't make any difference to you
or me, or not very long anyway, because we'd go right along and love
some other girl just as much the next time. Likely you've been in love
as many times as I have, and I don't know how many that is, but I
don't believe Emerson ever thought more'n twice about any woman before
this. But I sure reckon he's knocked out now, and bad enough to last
him a long time. He's just the sort that don't want any woman if he
can't get the one he does want. But you and me, Tommy,--Lord-a-mighty!
We'll have a sweetheart every time we can get one!"

Tuttle blushed a still deeper crimson under his red tan at this frank
account of his possible love affairs, and after a few moments of
silence he nodded thoughtfully:

"I guess you-all have hit it off about right, Nick, But I never
thought Emerson would be the first one of us three to go and get
married! I thought likely none of us ever would!"

"He ain't married yet, and I don't know as she'd have him."

"Why not? Of course she would!" said Tom, resentful at the idea that
any girl could refuse his idolized friend. He whittled the board fence
despondently a few moments, and then added with a brighter look: "But
he's on the wrong side of politics to suit her father, and I reckon
Frenchy wouldn't have it."

The whistle of the northbound train came up the track and they
climbed down from the fence and went to the depot. The telegraph
operator called Tom and handed him a dispatch.

"It's from Marshal Black," said Tuttle to Ellhorn, "and he wants me to
go up to Santa Fe as quick as I can get there. I reckon I'd better
jump right onto this train. Emerson don't need me any more now. Tell
him about it, and if he wants me for anything, or you-all think I'd
better come, wire, and I'll flirt gravel in a minute. Good-bye, old
man."

Emerson Mead made a detour through the northern end of the town and
came into the mountain road at the lower edge of the uplands. He
galloped down the street, checking his horse to a slow trot as he
neared Pierre Delarue's house. With sidelong glances he keenly
examined the veranda and the open doors and windows, but he could see
no flutter of drapery, nor the flaxen curls of the child. With a
protesting disappointment in his heart he held the horse back to a
walk while he stooped o