aily more saturnine. The world was
dark to Creede and Bill's fresh remarks jarred on him--but Bill
himself was happy. He was of the kind that runs by opposites, taking
their troubles with hilarity under the impression that they are
philosophers. His pretext for this present happiness was a professed
interview with Kitty Bonnair on the evening that the town herd pulled
into Moreno's. What had happened at this interview was a secret, of
course, but it made Bill happy; and the more morose and ugly Jeff
became about it the more it pleased Lightfoot to be gay. He sat on a
box that night and sang _risque_ ditties, his enormous Colt's revolver
dangling bravely at his hip; and at last, casting his weather eye upon
Creede, he began a certain song.

"Oh, my little girl, she lives in the town--"

And then he stopped.

"Bill," said the _rodeo_ boss feelingly, "you make me tired."

"Lay down an' you'll git rested, then," suggested Lightfoot.

"_A toodle link, a toodle link, a too-oodle a day._"

"I'll lay you down in a minute, if you don't shut up," remarked
Creede, throwing away his cigarette.

"The hell you say," commented Lightfoot airily.

"And last time I seen her she ast me to come down."

At this raw bit of improvisation the boss rose slowly to his feet and
stalked away from temptation.

"And if anybody sees her you'll know her by this sign,"

chanted the cowboy, switching to an out-and-out bad one; and then,
swaying his body on his cracker box, he plunged unctuously into the
chorus.

"_She's got a dark and rolling eye, boys;
She's got a dark and rolling eye._"

He stopped there and leapt to his feet anxiously. The mighty bulk of
the _rodeo_ boss came plunging back at him through the darkness; his
bruising fist shot out and the frontier troubadour went sprawling
among the pack saddles.

It was the first time Creede had ever struck one of his own kind,--men
with guns were considered dangerous,--but this time he laid on
unmercifully.

"You've had that comin' to you for quite a while, Bill Lightfoot," he
said, striking Bill's ineffectual gun aside, "and more too. Now maybe
you'll keep shut about 'your girl'!"

He turned on his heel after administering this rebuke and went to the
house, leaving his enemy prostrate in the dirt.

"The big, hulkin' brute," blubbered Lightfoot, sitting up and
aggrievedly feeling of his front teeth, "jumpin' on a li