This seemed going rather far, he thought--but of course she didn't
really mean it; the schoolma'am, he heartened himself with thinking,
was an awful, little bluffer.

"Don't go off mad, Girlie. I'm sorry I killed your gopher--on the
dead, I am. I just didn't think, That's a habit I've got--not thinking.

"Say! You stay, and we'll have a funeral. It isn't every common,
scrub gopher that can have a real funeral with mourners and music when
he goes over the Big Divide. He--he'll appreciate the honor; I would,
I know, if it was me."

The schoolma'am took a few steps and stopped, evidently in some
difficulty with her glove. From the look of her, no human being was
within a mile of her; she certainly did not seem to hear anything Weary
was saying.

"Say! I'll sing a song over him, if you'll wait a minute. I know two
whole verses of 'Bill Bailey,' and the chorus to 'Good Old Summertime.'
I can shuffle the two together and make a full deck. I believe they'd
go fine together.

"Say, you never heard me sing, did yuh? It's worth waiting for--only
yuh want to hang tight to something when I start. Come on--I'll let
you be the mourner."

Since Miss Satterly had been taking steps quite regularly while Weary
was speaking, she was now several rods away--and she had, more than
ever, the appearance of not hearing him and of not wanting to hear.

"Say, Tee-e-cher!"

The schoolma'am refused to stop, or to turn her head a fraction of an
inch, and Weary's face sobered a little. It was the first time that
inimitable "Tee-e-cher" of his had failed to bring the smile back into
the eyes of Miss Satterly. He looked after her dubiously. Her
shoulders were thrown well back and her feet pressed their imprint
firmly into the yellow dust of the trail. In a minute she would be
quite out of hearing.

Weary got up, took a step and grasped Glory's trailing bridle-rein and
hurried after her much faster than Glory liked and which he reproved
with stiffened knees and a general pulling back on the reins.

"Say! You wouldn't get mad at a little thing like that, would yuh?"
expostulated Weary, when he overtook her. "You know I didn't mean
anything, Girlie."

"I do not consider it a little thing," said the schoolma'am, icily.

Thus rebuffed, Weary walked silently beside her up the hill--silently,
that is, save for the subdued jingling of his spurs. He was beginning
to realize that there was an uncomfortable, heavy feeling in his