ice. "I want to be near him, and I'm not
afraid."

The girl regarded her for a moment in silence. "I should think you'd
had enough of cowpunchers for one night. But if you're bound to go I
ain't got no right to hold you. I'd go along with you if I could, but
I can't."

"I'm not afraid," she answered as her eyes sought the Texan's. "I've
learned a lot in the past few hours."

"I guess you ain't learnt enough to hurt you none," retorted Jennie,
with a trace of acid in her tone. "An' you'll learn a lot more 'fore
you hit the N. P., or my name ain't Jennie Dodds. If you're bound to
go you can take my outfit. I guess Tex'll see that my horse comes
back, anyhow."

The cowpuncher grinned: "Thanks, Jennie, I'm right proud to know you
think I wouldn't steal your horse." Once more he turned to the girl.
"When the half-breed comes for you, you go with him. I've got to go on
with the boys, now." Abruptly he left the room, and once more paused
in the hall before passing through the office. "She's game, all right.
An' the way she can look at a fellow out of those eyes of hers---- By
God! Purdy _ought_ to be'n killed!"

CHAPTER IX

THE PILGRIM

A group of saddle-horses stood before the Headquarters saloon, and as
the Texan entered he was vociferously greeted by the twenty cowboys who
crowded the bar.

"Come on, Tex, drink up!"

"Hell'll be a-poppin' down to the wool-warehouse."

"An', time we get there we won't be able to see Sam Moore fer dust."
Curly raised his glass and the cowpunchers joined in uproarious song:

"We'll string him up to a cottonwood limb
An' dig his grave in under him,
We'll tromp down the clods, an' we won't give a damn
'Cause he'll never kill another cow-man,
Ah wi yi yippie i oo-o-!"

Without a break the Texan picked up the refrain, improvising words to
fit the occasion:

"The sheriff's name, it's old Sam Moore,
He's standin' down by the jail-house door
With seventeen knives an' a gatlin' gun,
But you bet your boots we'll make him run
Ah wi yi yippie i o-o-o-!"

With whoops of approbation and a deafening chorus of yowls and
catcalls, the cowpunchers crowded through the door. A moment later the
bar-room was deserted and out in the street the night air resounded
with the sound of snorting, trampling horses, the metallic jangle of
spurs and bit chains, the creak of saddle-leather, and the terse,
quick-worded observations of men mounting in the midst of