It’s curious how hard it is, sometimes, to get trouble started. We all knew ’at the Cross-branders was ready to clean us out, an’ itchin’ for the job; but the’s one curious little holdback in the make-up of every healthy animal in the world. Every sane animal the’ is wants self-defence as his excuse for takin’ life. I admit that now and again beasts an’ men both get a sort o’ crazy blood-lust, an’ just kill for the sake of it; but it’s the rare exception.

One of us allus made it a point to go along with Horace; an’ most times when we’d meet up with any o’ the Cross-branders, they’d never miss the chance to fling some polite smart talk at him; but the little cuss could sass back sharper ’n they could, an’ I reckon they was suspicious that he wouldn’t ’a’ been so cool if he hadn’t had bigger backin’ than was in sight. It was perfectly natural to think ’at he had been sent out as a lure by some big cattle outfit, or even the government; so they went cautious till they could nose out the game.

One day Badger-face an’ the two Greasers came along when Horace was out ridin’ with Tillte Dutch. Dutch was one o’ these innocent-lookin’ Germans—big, wide-open eyes, a half smile, an’ a sort of a leanin’ to fat. He never had but one come-back to anything—which was to splutter; but he was dependable in a pinch.

“Whatever made you so unspeakable little?” sez Badger-face to Horace.

Horace looked behind him, an’ all about, an’ then sez in surprise: “Who, me?”

“Yes, you,” sez Badger-face. “You seem to dry down a little smaller each day.”

“Well,” sez Horace, speakin’ in a low secret-tellin’ tone, “I’ll tell ya; but I don’t want ya to blab it to every one ya see. When I was a young chap, I used to go with a big, awkward, potato-brained slob, about your size. I could out-shoot him, out-ride him, run circles around him, an’ think seven times while he was squeezin’ the cells of his brain so they’d touch up again’ each other; but one day he made a bet that he could eat more hog-meat ’n I could; an’ he won the bet. When I found out that the’ was one single thing ’at this big, loose-jointed galoot could beat me at, I felt so blame small that I never got over it, an’ this is why I disguise myself in these whiskers.”

The two Greasers couldn’t help but grin, an’ the fool Dutchman sniggered. This was more ’n Badger-face could stand. He shot his hand across an’ pulled his gun quick as a flash; but Horace didn’t move, he just sat still, with a friendly smile on his face; an’ Badger-face sat there with his gun in his hand, scowlin’ jerk-lightnin’ at him.

Spider an’ Slim had gone after meat that day, an’ they came into view with the carcase of a doe, just as Badger drew his gun. Me an’ Tank was listed to wrangle in the bunch, an’ we came ridin’ along just after the other two came into view. The Greasers gave a little cough an’ Badger-face looked up an’ saw us. It looked like a put-up job, all right; an’ chariots of fire, but he was mad! Pullin’ a gun on a man is the same as shootin’ at him. Badger-face had been tricked into givin’ us just grounds to slaughter him, and he wasn’t quite sure what move to make next. Our outfit had been purty well advertized, through cleanin’ out the Brophy gang, me an’ Mexican Slim were both two-gun men an’ known to be quick an’ accurate, while Tank was ever-lastin’ly gettin’ into trouble, owin’ to his friendly feelin’s for liquor. As we drew closer we made our smoke-wagons ready, while his two Greasers kept their hands in plain view, and harmless.

Badger had a trapped look in his face; but he didn’t say anything, an’ he didn’t cover Horace with his gun; he just held it ready. We did the same with ours, an’ it was the foolest lookin’ group I was ever part of. Ol’ Tank was the one who finally started things. “Look here, Badger-face,” he bellowed, “if you so much as harm a hair o’ those blamed ol’ whiskers, why, we’ll have to put ya out o’ business.”

Horace turned an’ looked at Tank in surprise. “Aw, put up your gun,” he said. “Badger-face ain’t in earnest. We had an argument the other day: I said ’at a man lost time crossin’ his hand to pull his gun, an’ he said it could be done quicker that way ’n any other; so to-day he joked me about bein’ as small in the body as he is in the brain, an’ I came back at him, also jokin’ in a friendly way; an’ he took this excuse to pull his gun on me, without any ill intent; but only to prove how quick he could do it. It stuck in his holster, though; an’ if we’d been in earnest, I’d have had to kill him. I’ve had him covered all this time; but you can see for yourselves ’at his gun ain’t cocked. Now put up your guns, and next time, don’t be silly.”

I know ’at Horace didn’t have any gun in his hand when we came up; but when he stopped speakin’, he pulled his hand with a cocked gun in it out from under his hoss’s mane, an’ Badger-face was the most surprised of any of us.

“Come on down to supper, Badger-face, an’ I’ll sing ya my song,” sez Horace. “We allus seem to have fresh deer meat when you happen along.”

We all put up our guns along with Badger-face, an’ he mumbled some sort of an excuse an’ rode away with the Greasers. O’ course we’d ought to ’a’ killed him right then, ’cause he was more full o’ hate than a rattler; but the simple truth was, that Horace had gained control over us complete, an’ we let him have his way.

“When did you get that gun in your hand, Horace?” I sez to him after supper. “You didn’t have no gun when I rode up.”

“That’s what’s puzzlin’ Badger-face right this minute,” sez Horace. “I didn’t draw that gun until Tank made his talk; but at the same time I wasn’t as defenceless as I looked. I have told you all the time ’at that man didn’t have the nerve to harm me. He’s a coward.”

“I reckon you’ll be killed one o’ these days, still believin’ that,” sez ol’ Tank. “How much fightin’ experience have you ever had?”

“How much did Thesis ever have?” asked Horace.

“Never heard of him,” sez Tank. “Who was he?”

“He was a Greek hero,” sez Horace. “He never had had a fight till he started out to go to his father; but he cleaned out all the toughs along the way, an’ when he reached his father, who was king of Athens, he found ’em just ready to send out seven young men an’ seven maidens, which they offered up each year to the Minnietor, which was a beast with the body of a man, and the head of a bull, just like Badger-face. Thesis volunteered, an’ what he did was to kill the Minnietor an’ end all that nonsense.”

“Well, I never heard tell o’ that before, an’ I don’t more ’n half believe it now,” sez Tank; “but I’m willin’ to bet four dollars ’at the Minnietor didn’t know as much about gunfightin’ as what Badger-face does. He’ll get ya yet, you see if he don’t.”

“Tell ya what I’m game to do,” sez Horace. “I’m game to go right to Ty Jones’s ranch house alone. Do ya dare me?”

“No, you don’t do that,” sez I. “That’s a heap different proposition. Ty Jones wouldn’t pull his gun without shootin’; and besides, he’d most likely set his dogs on ya.”

“Well, I own up ’at I don’t want no dealin’s with dogs,” sez Horace, thoughtful. “Dogs haven’t enough imagination to work on. If they’re trained to bite, why, that’s what they do; but give a human half a chance, an’ he’ll imagine a lot o’ things which are not so. You couldn’t tell Badger-face a big enough tale about me to make him doubt it. I tell ya, I got him scared.”

We didn’t argue with him none; the’ was some doubt about him havin’ Badger-face fooled; but the’ wasn’t any doubt about him havin’ himself fooled—which is the main thing after all, I reckon. Anyway, we let Horace sit there the whole evenin’, tellin’ Greek-hero tales which must have blistered the imagination o’ the feller ’at first made ’em up.

Along about nine o’clock we began to stretch an’ yawn; but before we got to bed, Mexican Slim said ’at he heard a noise at the corral, an’ we all looked at one another, thinkin’ it was the Cross-branders; but Horace was the first one to get back into his boots an’ belt; an’ he also insisted on bein’ the first to open the door, which he did as soon as we blew out the candle. Then we all filed out an’ sneaked down toward the corral; but first thing we knew, a voice out o’ the dark whispered: “This is me—Olaf. Is everything all right?”

We told him it was, an’ he whistled three times. You could ’a’ knocked me down with a feather when Kit Murray an’ the Friar came ridin’ up; an’ then we turned the ponies loose an’ went into the house. It only had two rooms, countin’ the lean-to kitchen, an’ we made consid’able of a crowd; but we were all in good spirits, on account of Olaf gettin’ the girl an’ us bein’ able to hand him back his stuff with not one head missin’.

It had been some interval since I’d seen Kit Murray, an’ I was surprised to view the change in her. She didn’t look so much older, but all the recklessness had gone out of her face, an’ it had a sort of a quiet, holy look about it. “Kit,” I sez, “I wish ya all the joy the’ is; but I’d ’a’ been willin’ to have bet my eyes ’at you’d never take Olaf. I was glad to see him go up after ya, ’cause gettin’ knocked on the head is some better ’n bein’ kept hangin’ on a hook; but you sure got your nerve with ya. This homestead is purty likely to get in some other folks’ way.”

Kit had as snappy a pair o’ black eyes as was ever stuck in a face; and now they flashed out full power. “I know it’s goin’ to be hard to hold this place,” sez she, “but I reckon I can help a little. I can ride an’ shoot as well as a man, if I have to, and you know it. I don’t want anything but the quietest sort of a life the’ is; but I’m ready to stand for any sort o’ luck ’at comes along. As for Olaf, he’s the only man in the world for me. I saw something o’ the big cities back east, an’ Billings, an’ the boys on the range here, and out of ’em all, Olaf’s my man. The thing I hope more ’n anything else is, that we can die together.”

Her voice caused a hush to come to the room. I had meant to be jovial an’ hearty; but the’ was an undercurrent of earnestness in her voice which put a tingle into a feller. Kit Murray had changed a heap, but all for the better.

Olaf cleared his throat, an’ we all took a look at him. He had changed, too. He had lost the chained-bear look he generally wore, an’ the’ was a light o’ pride an’ satisfaction in his face which was good to look upon. “Boys,” he said, “I’ve been purty tough an’ unsociable, an’ I don’t see why you’ve took so much trouble for me; but I tell ya right here that I stand ready to square it in any way or at any time I can. Now, it seems mighty funny ’at Kit Murray should love me, an’ I can’t account for it any more ’n you can; but I knew right from the start that she did love me—I could tell by the light. If ever the time comes that she don’t love me any more, I get out of her way, that’s all about that; but I’m not goin’ to make her stay here any longer ’n I have to. I sell out when I get the first chance. Friar Tuck, he softened my heart, an’ he watched over her. He’s a man. That’s all I can say.”

Well, this was an all-around noble speech for a stone image like Olaf had been, an’ we cheered him to the echo; but Horace had sort o’ been jostled to the outside an’ forgot. Now, he come forward an’ shook Olaf by the hand an’ congratulated him, an’ sez: “The’s one thing I’d like mightily to know, an’ that is—what the deuce do you mean by this light you’re allus alludin’ to?”

Olaf was some embarrassed; but it never seemed to fuss Horace any when he had turned all the fur the’ was in sight the wrong way; so he just waited patiently while Olaf spluttered about it.

“I don’t know myself,” sez Olaf. “Always, since I was a little child, I have seen a floating light about people. I thought every one saw this light an’ I spoke of it when I was a child an’ asked my mother about it many times; but at first she thought I lie, an’ then she thought my head was wrong; so I stopped talkin’ about it; but always I see it an’ it changes with the feelings and with the health. All the colors and shades I cannot read, but some I know. I knew that Kit Murray loved me before she knew it, and I knew that the Friar was a true man when they told me tales of him. Animals, too, have this floatin’ light about ’em, an’ I can tell when they are frightened an’ when they are mean. This is why I handle hosses without trouble. Now I do not know why my eyes are this way; but I have told you because you have been good friends to me. I do not want you to tell of this because it makes people think I am crazy.”

“Course it does,” sez Horace. “It made me think you were crazy. I never heard of anything like this before. Tell me some more about it.”

“There is no more to tell,” sez Olaf. “When I see the flame I do not see the people. The flame wavers about them, and sometimes I have seen it at night, but not often. I do nothing to make myself see this way. Always my eyes did this even when I was only a baby.”

“Well, you have everything beat I ever saw yet,” sez Horace. “What do you think o’ this, Friar?”

“I never heard of such a case,” sez the Friar; “although it may have been that many have had this gift to some extent. I think it is due to the peculiar blue of Olaf’s eyes. I think that this blue detects colors or rays, not visible to ordinary eyes. I wish that some scientist would study them.”

“I’ll pay your way back East, Olaf,” sez Horace, “if you’ll have your eyes tested.”

“No, no,” sez Olaf, shakin’ his head. “I don’t want to be a freak. What is the use? I can not tell how I do it, so it cannot be learned; and I do not want things put into my eyes for experiments. No, I will not do it.”

“Tell me how Badger-face looks to you,” sez Horace.

“Oh, he is bad,” sez Olaf. “He has the hate color, he loves to kill; but he is like the wolf; he does not like the fight, he wants always to kill in secret.”

“I bet my eyes are a little like yours,” sez Horace, noddin’ his head. “I knew ’at Badger-face was this way as soon as I saw him.”

“Oh, here now,” sez the Friar. “You are puttin’ down a special gift to the level of shrewd character-readin’.”

“What sort of a flame does a dead person have, Olaf?” sez Horace.

A queer look came into Olaf’s face, a half-scared look. “A dead person has no flame,” sez he, with a little shudder. “It is a bad sight. I have watched; I have seen the soul leave. When a man is killed, the savage purple color fades into the yellow of fear, then comes the blue, it gets fainter and fainter around the body; but it gathers like a cloud above, and then it is silver gray, like moonshine. It is not in the shape of the body, it is just a cloud. It floats away. That is all.”

“Well, that’s enough,” sez Horace. “Can you see any flame about a sleeping person?”

“Yes,” sez Olaf, “just like about a waking person; and there is marks over a wound or a sick place.”

“Well, Mrs. Svenson,” sez Horace to Kit, “you’ll have to be mighty careful or your husband will find you out.”

“I am perfectly willin’,” sez Kit with a proud little smile. She was game, all right, Kit was.

“That is why I say it is all right,” sez Olaf. “She is young, she cannot know how she will change. If ever she no longer love me, I will not bother her. That would be a foolishness; but so long as she love me, no other man will bother her. That would be devilishness!”

“You certainly have a nice, simple scheme of life,” sez Horace. “If ever you change your mind, I’ll put up the money to take you back East, an’ pay you high wages.”

“No,” sez Olaf, “I hate circuses an’ shows, an’ such things. I not go.”

“You say you can tell sick places, an’ fear, an’ hate, an’ honesty,” sez Horace. “Now, when I came out here, I was just punk all over. You give me a look-over, an’ tell right out what you see.”

At first Olaf shook his head, but we finally coaxed him into it; an’ he opened his eyes wide an’ looked at Horace. As he looked the blue in his eyes got deeper an’ deeper, like the flowers on the benches in June, then when the pupil was plumb closed, the blue got lighter again, and he said: “You have not one sick point, you have good thoughts, you are very brave, you are too brave—you are reckless. You have very great vitality, an’ will live to be very old—unless you get killed. I knew an old Injun—over a hundred years old he was—he had a flame like yours. It is strange.”

You could actually see Horace swellin’ up with vanity at this; but it made ol’ Tank Williams hot to see such a fuss made about a small-caliber cuss; so he rumbles around in his throat a minute, an’ sez: “Well, you fellers can fool around all night havin’ your souls made light of, if ya want to; but as for me I’m goin’ to bed.”

Kit insisted that we sleep on the floor just as we had been, while she an’ Olaf bunked in the lean-to; but a warm chinook had been blowin’ all day, an’ it was soft an’ pleasant, so we took our beds out in the cottonwoods. Horace an’ the Friar got clinched into some kind of a discussion; but the rest of us dropped off about as soon as we stretched out. The moon was just risin’, an’ one sharp peak covered with glitterin’ snow stood up back o’ the rim. I remember thinkin’ it might be part o’ the old earth’s shiny soul.