Captain McCalmont, away north on the trail, pulled up at a bend of the hill.

"Doc," he called out to the man with the led horse astern, "jest you hitch that sorrel of mine to the tail of this rig. That's right, my son; now find out if Buck stays at the skyline or goes buttin' straight back to the ranche."

"All right, Cap."

When he was gone, Curly rucked up the canvas ground-sheet, climbed out of bed, and nestled against her father's side on the seat.

"Havin' a bad time?" he asked, as he drove on.

"Sure."

"You heard what I told to Buck?"

"Buck's gawn back to betray the outfit."

"So I reckon."

Curly got her father's near arm around her, shivering while she looked all round at the dusky hills, up to the red of the sunset. Then she listened to the thud of Doc's horse as he galloped back to report.

"Cap," says the man, "Buck's gawn straight away to the ranche."

"That's good," McCalmont chuckled; "you see, Doc, I've sent Buck to lead that sheriff's posse to Holy Crawss. We've got to work to-night, and ain't hungering none for their company. D'you know the Jim Crow Mine?"

"I guess that's the old shaft a mile this side of Grave City?"

"Correct. Now you lope off to the boys we left in camp at Las Aguas. Tell Stanley he's second in command now. He's to round up his boys, herd 'em close, and drive 'em swift to the Jim Crow Mine. Now repeat my awdehs."

Doc repeated the orders.

"Now," said the Captain, "ride!"

Doc started off on the dead run, and for a while Curly watched his figure flopping away into the blue mists of dusk. The night was falling fast.

"Po' Buck," she whispered.

"I'm sorry, too," says McCalmont; "sooner or later he had to be a skunk, and behave as such."

"He's daid," says Curly. "I heard him die just now, and he did love me so hard."

"The trail is clearing ahead for you, my girl."

"I'm sort of tired," she answered.

"You'll rest to-night."

"Father when you was talking with Jim outside the shack I was awake; I heard all what was said, but couldn't understand. Jim wanted suthin' fearful bad. What was it he wanted, dad?"

"Wall, now, if that don't beat all! You jest got ears like a lil' fox! And didn't I act plumb good and tame with that Jim boy?"

"Which you shorely did. Fancy, you taking all that war-talk, and never even shooting his laigs. Yo're getting better'n better every day."

"I was good, that's a fact. You see, I nacherally couldn't lose my temper without disturbing you with my gun-talk. Besides, I jest cayn't help loving that Jim. You want him, Curly?"

"Sure, I don't know what's coming over me the way I feels at that man. It seems as though my heart was pitchin' and buckin' like a mean hawss to get at Jim. D'you think it's this wound that tears my heart—is it 'cause I'm so sick?"

"It's worse nor that, my girl. You've fallen in love."

"Does that mean I got to marry him?"

"That's the only cure."

"But I don't want to be cured. I like it, dad, and when it hurts I like it all the more."

"A sure bad symptom that. You'll go with Jim?"

"To the end of the world, and over the edge—I cayn't help that."

"You don't love me any more?"

"Oh, you're allus the same, like the climate—but he's come buttin' along like the weather, so that I feel as if I was just whirled up in the air."

"I was an idiot to think I could fool old Nature, and make you into a man. Wall, it cayn't be helped."

"Daddy, I never was fit to ride with the gang, and I doubt I'll never be fit for a woman, either, now. I'm shorely tired, and my haid goes round and round."

McCalmont stopped the team and laid Curly down in her nest. He told me after that he felt lonesome and scared, with all his nerves a-jumping for fear there was something worse than usual wrong. He felt Curly's bandages, and his hand got wet; then listened, and heard a drip, drip, drip, on the dust, then struck a match and saw the running blood, for her wound had opened. He had to light a lantern, no matter what the risk, while he stopped that bleeding.

Meanwhile the Marshal had started his circus east toward Holy Cross, and he was having troubles most plentiful with all his warriors. He held us in the name of the Republic for special service in pursuit of robbers, but his tenderfoot outfit was badly in want of supper, and the cowboy people got plumb disgusted at having to ride, point, swing, and drive on a herd of shorthorns. I'd shown my hand in this game by shooting Buck, the same being needful to save the old Marshal's life, and I sure helped him all I knew in getting the posse on towards Holy Crawss. At the same time my private feelings called me off to quite a different lay-out, and I knew, all to myself, that Buck might have been mistaken a whole lot in his way of reckoning up McCalmont's plans. So I fell back to give a push to some stragglers, then fell back again to see if there was any more belated pilgrims behind. The light had faded, the stars were beginning to ride herd on the Milky Way, and I felt a sort of dumb yearning to find McCalmont. An hour later, scouting swift and cautious up the Grave City road, I saw a lantern bobbing high up among the hills. That must be a bait, I thought, to lure the Marshal's posse into some robbers' deadfall, so I rode slow, and sang my simple range songs to show it was only me, one harmless person.

That's the rear song for driving a herd. This is nonsense:—

A voice called out of the dark, "Throw up yo' hands!"

Up went my paws. "Hello, boys," I shouted, "is this the inquiry office? I wants my visitin' cyard sent up to Cap McCalmont."

Somebody laughed, and then I heard Jim's voice. "Why, it's Chalkeye!"

"Well, if he don't want to be shot he'd better turn right back."

"Jest you tell yo' hold-ups, Jim," says I, "that them leaden go-through pills don't suit my delicate health." I dropped my hands, and the first robber asked Jim if he would answer for me.

Jim said he would.

"Take this man through," said the robber, and Jim led me, mighty pleased, to where the lantern shone.

"Captain," says he, "here's old Chalkeye!"

McCalmont jumped down from the buckboard, holding out his lantern. "Wall," says he, "I'm glad to see ye, Misteh Davies, I certainly am—shake hearty. Whar you from?"

"Is Curly with you?"

"Here's me," came a faint chirp out of the bedding.

"Her wound broke out agin," says McCalmont.

"Her wound?" I howled.

"Wall, that cat is shorely spilled," says McCalmont, and so I knew for the first time that my Curly wasn't a boy, but come of a different breed of people altogether. I slid from my horse and sat down on a rock to unravel my mixed emotions.

"If that's the truth," I says, "I spose I may turn out to be a widow, the same being some confusing to the mind."

"Wall, Mrs. Davies," says McCalmont, "I was goin' to propose that you act as a sort of chaperon to Curly."

"I rise to inquire," says I, "if that's some new kind of mountain sheep." The name was new to me, and I felt suspicious.

"A mountain sheep," says McCalmont, "is a cimarron, but a chaperon's defined as a party which rides herd on girls to proteck them in society."

"Meaning that this carousing around in a waggon ain't good for wounds?"

"Not when the hawspital has to gallop over rocks."

"Seems to me," says I, "that right apart from bullet holes in a lady, he'll need home comforts more'n an or'nary robber."

"Kin you take Curly home, then?"

"I'm getting unpopular," says I. "My home ain't fortified much." I rolled a cigarette to think with. "Whereas I got some cousins which is ladies, the Misses Jameson. Their home is just the other side of the Jim Crow Mine, between that and Grave City, and they has a fancy for stray cats, dawgs, and outcasts generally. Seems to me, though, they'd be mighty near surprised if I played a wounded robber on them, calling the same a female. They ain't broke in to lady outlaws damaged in gun-fights yet. They're plumb respectable, and frequents the Episcopal Church. The bishop boards thar when he happens around, and they'll take up with any litter of passing curates."

"I'm scart," says Curly. "Cayn't you bed me down in yo' barn?"

"You'll go whar yo' told," says McCalmont, "and stay put until yo're well enough to fight."

"If you're scared, Curly," says I, "these same ladies is due to have fits at the sight of yo' present costume. Now, if I could show them a case like you in the Bible they'd think it right natural, and all correct."

"Absalom," says Curly, "had long ha'r."

"So does Buffalo Bill, Texas Bob, and other old longhorns, but the same ain't lady robbers. Besides, yo' ha'r is short, and you're plumb unusual."

"I got a trunk full of female plunder," says McCalmont, "and it's right here in the buckboard, in case he needs to dress respectable."

"It's all tawn to rags," said Curly, "from that last b'ar hunt when I was treed by a grizzly. And the wig got stuck full of pine gum."

"These details of female dress and depawtment"—McCalmont was getting restive—"seems to me to be some frivolous. The question is, Do these yere ladies run much to tongue?"

"Wall, no; the fashionable society of Grave City has struck them reticent. Miss Blossom says she'd rather mix up with bears, and Miss Pansy she allows our crowd lacks tone. No, these ladies don't go henning around to cackle."

"That settles it," said McCalmont. "Now you, Jim, you go back and tell these boys to join the herders in front, and I'll be with you presently. It ain't decent, my boy, for you to behold what's going to happen in the way of costume. So you jest tell Curly good-bye, and we'll proceed with disguisin' her as a womern."

"When shall I see Curly again?" asks Jim in a fright.

"At such time when he's fit to ride. Now tell yo' good-bye."

So Jim and Curly had a minute together while I helped McCalmont to get out the trunk of clothes. Then Jim rode off for the sake of decency, and I turned my back. There was arguments between McCalmont and Curly about how the female costume should be fixed, the parent wanting one side to the front, and the dutiful child insisting otherwise. When I was told to look, there was Curly grinning in surroundings of yellow wig, the same being bunched up behind like a clump of prickly pear. McCalmont rigged himself out in his preacher clothes, cinched up his sorrel horse at the tail of the buckboard, and tied his cowboy gear to the strings of the saddle. He turned to watch Jim and the robbers file past on their way to the front, then gave me his lantern.

"My friend," says he, "when you go to the home of them ladies, drive straight acrost the open range to the back door, be thar befo' midnight, and if you love yo' life, don't stray out on the waggon road between the Jim Crow Mine and Grave City. If you do you'll get killed for sure."

"What shall I do with the buckboard?"

"Lose it somewheres whar it ain't apt to be found. Turn them team hawsses loose and let them break for their home, as they shorely will."

"And when Curly is well of this wound?"

"Then Jim will join you, and you'll take them children to some safe country, so that they get mar'ied and forget this life. We planned all that befo'."

"You trust me still?"

"It looks that way, my friend, and I don't trust by halves."

He gripped my hand, and went loping away into the night.