one side of the fence, that girl on the other.

"I've been a-squarin' off to write," Taterleg replied, "but I don't seem
to git the time." He opened his vest to put the letter away close to his
heart, it seemed, that it might remind him of his intention and square
him quite around to the task. But there was no pocket on the side
covering his heart. Taterleg put the letter next his lung as the
nearest approach to that sentimental portion of his anatomy, and sighed
long and loud as he buttoned his garment.

"You said you'd put off goin' till mornin', Duke?"

"Sure I will."

"I'll throw my things in a sack and be ready to hit the breeze with you
after breakfast. I can write back to the boss for my time."

* * * * *

Morning found them on the road together, the sun at their backs.
Taterleg was as brilliant as a humming-bird, even to his belt and
scabbard, which had a great many silver tacks driven into them,
repeating the letters LW in great characters and small. He said the
letters were the initials of his name.

"Lawrence?" the Duke ventured to inquire.

Taterleg looked round him with great caution before answering, although
they were at least fifteen miles from camp, and farther than that from
the next human habitation. He lowered his voice, rubbing his hand
reflectively along the glittering ornaments of his belt.

"Lovelace," he said.

"Not a bad name."

"It ain't no name for a cook," Taterleg said, almost vindictively.
"You're the first man I ever told it to, and I'll ask you not to pass it
on. I used to go by the name of Larry before they called me Taterleg. I
got that name out here in the Bad Lands; it suits _me_, all right."

"It's a queer kind of a name to call a man by. How did they come to give
it to you?"

"Well, sir, I give myself that name, you might say, when you come to
figger it down to cases. I was breakin' a horse when I first come out
here four years ago, headin' at that time for Wyoming. He throwed me.
When I didn't hop him ag'in, the boys come over to see if I was busted.
When they asked me if I was hurt, I says, 'He snapped my dern old leg
like a 'tater.' And from that day on they called me Taterleg. Yes, and I
guess I'd 'a' been in Wyoming now, maybe with a oyster parlor and a
wife, if it hadn't been for that blame horse." He paused reminiscently;
then he said:

"Where was you aimin' to camp tonight, Duke?"

"Where does the flier stop after it passes