ed in charcoal on
the sacks of flour and in lead-pencil on the newspapers. I see one of
'em once chalked on the back of a new cook that old man McAllister sent
out from the ranch--danged if I didn't."

"Santa's father," explained Webb gently, "got her to promise that she
wouldn't write to me or send me any word. That heart-and-cross sign was
her scheme. Whenever she wanted to see me in particular she managed
to put that mark on somethin' at the ranch that she knew I'd see. And
I never laid eyes on it but what I burnt the wind for the ranch the
same night. I used to see her in that coma mott back of the little
horse-corral."

"We knowed it," chanted Baldy; "but we never let on. We was all for
you. We knowed why you always kept that fast paint in camp. And when
we see that gizzard-and-crossbones figured out on the truck from the
ranch we knowed old Pinto was goin' to eat up miles that night instead
of grass. You remember Scurry--that educated horse-wrangler we had--the
college fellow that tangle-foot drove to the range? Whenever Scurry saw
that come-meet-your-honey brand on anything from the ranch, he'd wave
his hand like that, and say, 'Our friend Lee Andrews will again swim the
Hell's point to-night.'"

"The last time Santa sent me the sign," said Webb, "was once when she
was sick. I noticed it as soon as I hit camp, and I galloped Pinto
forty mile that night. She wasn't at the coma mott. I went to the
house; and old McAllister met me at the door. 'Did you come here to
get killed?' says he; 'I'll disoblige you for once. I just started a
Mexican to bring you. Santa wants you. Go in that room and see her.
And then come out here and see me.'

"Santa was lyin' in bed pretty sick. But she gives out a kind of a
smile, and her hand and mine lock horns, and I sets down by the bed--mud
and spurs and chaps and all. 'I've heard you ridin' across the grass for
hours, Webb,' she says. 'I was sure you'd come. You saw the sign?' she
whispers. 'The minute I hit camp,' says I. ''Twas marked on the bag
of potatoes and onions.' 'They're always together,' says she, soft
like--'always together in life.' 'They go well together,' I says, 'in a
stew.' 'I mean hearts and crosses,' says Santa. 'Our sign--to love and
to suffer--that's what they mean.'

"And there was old Doc Musgrove amusin' himself with whisky and a
palm-leaf fan. And by and by Santa goes to sleep; and Doc feels her
forehead; and he says to me: 'You're not such a bad febri