rd for the proprieties,
established herself at the Blounts, in Tin Cup, and after Grace's
contemptuous treatment of Douglass, he spent the major portion of his
time in the village. Brevoort, engrossed in his mining schemes,
gravitated between Tin Cup and the Roaring Fork, unseeingly.

Over at the C Bar the situation was fast growing intolerable to Grace
Carter. Although she would rather have died than admit it even to
herself, her love for Douglass only increased with every heart-wrenching
report of his recklessly open relations with the object of her deepest
hatred, which were constantly sifting down to her through the neighbors'
gossip. As their engagement had not been made public, she was spared the
irritating commiseration which would otherwise have been her uneviable
lot. All knowledge of it was fortunately restricted to Abbie, McVey,
Brevoort and his wife; for obvious reasons it gained no further
publicity. Therefore Douglass's affair was regarded enviously by the
other range men, and it must be confessed, rather indulgently by the
range women, who found not a great deal of fault with his conquest of
this supercilious "big-bug" who had weaned the hearts of their men away
from proper altars of devotion. Old Abbie, alone, was bitterly
vituperative of both the man and his condoning admirers.

"Why is it," she indignantly snorted to Mrs. Blount, on the occasion of
one of that lady's garrulous visits, "that all wimmen, even r'ally good
ones, have a kinda sneakin' likin' foah a rake? Thu worse thu mizzable
he-critters be, thu moah yuh giggle at theah nastiness! It's a wondeh to
me thet men eveh get married at all any moah. I disremembeh eveh hearin'
any she-male talkin' about thu goodness of any r'ally decent man,
married er single; but jest let some tur'ble mean-minded cuss get to
cuttin' capehs with some fool woman er tother, an' every ole brindle on
thu range chaws on thu cud of it like a dogie on May blue-joint; an' as
fer thu heifers, every blessed one on 'em purtends to be buffaloed if he
crosses theah trail an' skitteh away, lookin' back disap'inted if he
don't folleh an' try to raound 'em up. An' bimeby, when he gets good an'
plenty tiahed o' hell-ahootin' araound, he jes' ups an' nach'rally takes
hes pick o' thu cream o' thu bunch, leavin' thu skim milk fer better men
whose shoes he ain't fitten to lick!

"I don't know why," she went on regretfully, calmly ignoring the
indignant protest of her scandalized hea