all your winnings, these six-to-ones
and ten-to-ones and--and all that, take time to unravel. But you,
yourself, stood to lose just three hundred and sixty-five dollars.
Gee! but you cowboys are reckless."

There was more that she said, but Weary did not mind. He had
discovered that he liked to look at the schoolma'am. After that,
nothing else was of much importance. He began to wish he might prolong
his opportunity for looking.

"Say," he said suddenly, "Come on and let's go to the dance."

The schoolma'am bit at her pencil and looked at him. "It's late--"

"Oh, there's time enough," urged Weary.

"Maybe--but--"

"Do yuh think we aren't well enough acquainted?"

"Well we're not exactly old friends," she laughed.

"We're going to be, so it's all the same," Weary surprised himself by
declaring with much emphasis. "You'd go, wouldn't you, if I was--well,
say your brother?"

Miss Satterly rested her chin in her palms and regarded him
measuringly. "I don't know. I never had one--except three or four
that I--er--adopted, at one time or another. I suppose one could go,
though--with a brother."

Weary made a rapid, mental note for the benefit of the Happy
Family--and particularly Cal Emmett. "Darling Brother" was a myth,
then; he ought to have known it, all along. And if that were a myth,
so probably were all those messages and things that he had hated. She
didn't care anything about him--and suddenly that struck him
unpleasantly, instead of being a relief, as it consistently should have
been.

"I wish you'd adopt me, just for to-night, and go;" he said, and his
eyes backed the wish. "You see," he added artfully, "it's a sin to
waste all that good music--a real, honest-to-God stringed orchestra
from Great Falls, and--"

"Meekers have taken both rigs," objected she, weakly.

"I noticed a side saddle hanging in the stable," he wheedled, "and I'll
gamble I can rustle something to put it on. I--"

"I should think you'd gambled enough for one day," she quelled. "But
that chunky little gray in the pasture is the horse I always ride. I
expect," she sighed, "my new dancing dress would be a sight to behold
when I got there--and it won't wash. But what does a mere man care--"

"Wrap it up in something, and I'll carry it for yuh," Weary advised
eagerly. "You can change at the hotel. It's dead easy." He picked up
his hat from the floor, rose and stood looking anxiously down at her.
"About how soon,