the fragments in his face. Poor old Whetstone! his bones all
scattered by the wolves by now over in that lonely gorge.

Vesta Philbrook would not have been capable of a vengeance so mean.
Strange how she had grown so gentle and so good under the constant
persecution of this thieving gang! Her conscience was as clear as a
windowpane; a man could look through her soul and see the world
undisturbed by a flaw beyond it. A good girl; she sure was a good girl.
And as pretty a figure on a horse as man's eye ever followed.

She had said once that she felt it lonesome out there by the fence. Not
half as lonesome, he'd gamble, as he was that minute to be back there
riding her miles and miles of wire. Not lonesome on account of Vesta;
sure not. Just lonesome for that dang old fence.

Simple he was, sitting there on top of that hammering old cattle car
that sunny afternoon, the dust of the road in his three-day-old beard,
his barked willow prod-pole between his knees; simple as a ballad that
children sing, simple as a homely tune.

Well, of course he had kept Grace Kerr's little handkerchief, for
reasons that he could not quite define. Maybe because it seemed to
represent her as he would have had her; maybe because it was the poor
little trophy of his first tenderness, his first yearning for a woman's
love. But he had kept it with the dim intention of giving it back to
her, opportunity presenting.

"Yes, I'll give it back to her," he nodded; "when the time comes I'll
hand it to her. She can wipe her eyes on it when she opens them and
repents."

Then he fell to thinking of business, and what was best for Vesta's
interests, and of how he probably would take up Pat Sullivan's offer for
the calves, thus cleaning up her troubles and making an end of her
expenses. Pat Sullivan, the rancher for whom Ben Jedlick was cook; he
was the man. The Duke smiled through his grime and dust when he
remembered Jedlick lying back in the barber's chair.

And old Taterleg, as good as gold and honest as a horse, was itching to
be hitting the breeze for Wyoming. Selling the calves would give him the
excuse that he had been casting about after for a month. He was writing
letters to Nettie; she had sent her picture. A large-breasted,
calf-faced girl with a crooked mouth. Taterleg might wait a year, or
even four years more, with perfect safety. Nettie would not move very
fast on the market, even in Wyoming, where ladies were said to be
scarce.

And