Jack."

"And you ain't mad at me, Pierre?"

"Not a bit."

There was just a trace of coldness in his tone, and she knew perfectly
why it was there, but she chose to ascribe it to another cause.

She explained: "You see, a woman is just about nine-tenths fool,
Pierre, and has to bust out like that once in a while."

"Oh!" said Pierre, and his eyes wandered past her as though he found
food for thought on the wall.

She ventured cautiously, after seeing that he was eating with appetite:
"How does the pin look?"

"Why, fine."

And the silence began again.

She dared not question him in that mood, so she ventured again: "The
old boy shooting left-handed--didn't he even fan the wind near you?"

"That was another bit of carelessness," said Pierre, but his smile held
little of life. "He might have known that if he _had_ shot close--by
accident--I might have turned around and shot him dead--on purpose.
But when a man stops thinking for a minute, he's apt to go on for a
long time making a fool of himself."

"Right," she said, brightening as she felt the crisis pass away, "and
that reminds me of a story about--"

"By the way, Jack, I'll wager there's a more interesting story than
that you could tell me."

"What?"

"About how that glove happened to be on the floor."

"Why, partner, it's just a glove of my own."

"Didn't know you wore gloves with a leather as soft as that."

"No? Well, that story I was speaking about runs something like this--"

And she told him a gay narrative, throwing all her spirit into it, for
she was an admirable mimic. He met her spirit more than half-way,
laughing gaily; and so they reached the end of the story and the end of
the meal at the same time. She cleared away the pans with a few
motions and tossed them clattering into a corner. Neat housekeeping
was not numbered among the many virtues of Jacqueline.

"Now," said Pierre, leaning back against the wall, "we'll hear about
that glove."

"Damn the glove!" broke from her.

"Steady, pal!"

"Pierre, are you going to nag me about a little thing like that?"

"Why, Jack, you're red and white in patches. I'm interested."

He sat up.

"I'm more than interested. The story, Jack."

"Well, I suppose I have to tell you. I did a fool thing to-day. Took
a little gallop down the trail, and on my way back I met a girl sitting
in her saddle with her face in her hands, crying her heart out. Poor
kid! She'd come up in a hunting