home from the
camp something over an hour, and had seen some one ride up to the barn
without recognizing Buck or the familiar Caesar. So she had hastened to
investigate. Something of her gladness at sight of him was in the
manner of her greeting now, and Buck's despondency began to fall from
him as he realized her unfeigned pleasure.

"I'm so glad you came," Joan went on impulsively. "So glad, so glad.
I've been in camp to order things for--for my aunt's coming. You know
your Padre told me to send for her. I mailed the letter this morning."

"You--sent for your aunt?"

In a moment the whole hideous position of the Padre came upon him,
smothering all his own personal feelings, all his pleasure, all his
doubts and fears.

"Why--yes." Joan's eyes opened wide in alarm. "Have I done wrong? He
said, send for her."

Buck shook his head and moved out of the stall.

"You sure done dead right. The Padre said it."

"Then what was the meaning in your--what you said?"

Buck smiled.

"Nothing--just nothing."

Joan eyed him a moment in some doubt. Then she passed the matter over,
and again the pleasure at his coming shone forth.

"Oh, Buck," she cried, "there are some mean people in the world. I've
been talking to that horror, Beasley. He is a horror, isn't he? He's
been telling me something of the talk of the camp. He's been telling
me how--how popular I am," she finished up with a mirthless laugh.

"Popular? I--I don't get you."

Buck's whole expression had changed at the mention of Beasley's name.
Joan had no reason to inquire his opinion of the storekeeper.

"You wouldn't," she hastened on. "You could never understand such
wicked meanness as that man is capable of. I'm sure he hates me, and
only told me these--these things to make me miserable. And I was
feeling so happy, too, after seeing your Padre," she added
regretfully.

"An' what are the things he's been sayin'?"

Buck's jaws were set.

"Oh, I can't tell you what he said, except--except that the men think
I'm responsible for the death of those two. The other things were too
awful. It seems I'm--I'm the talk of the camp in--in an awful way. He
says they hate me. But I believe it's simply him. You see, he's tried
to--to ingratiate himself with me--oh, it's some time back, and
I--well, I never could stand him, after that time when the boys gave
me the gold. I wish they had never given me that gold. He still
persists it's unlucky, and I--I'm beginning to