As Wichita waited for her foreman her thoughts were overcast by clouds of sorrow and regret. The animosities that were directed upon Shoz-Dijiji were colored by the shame she felt for having permitted her heart to surrender itself to an Indian. That she had never openly admitted the love that she had once harbored for a savage did not reconcile her, nor did the fact that she had definitely and permanently uprooted the last vestige of this love and nurtured hatred in its stead completely clear her conscience. It angered her that even while she vehemently voiced her belief that Shoz-Dijiji had killed her father she still had doubts that refused to die. She was bitter in the knowledge that though she had suggested that he was stealing her cattle, deep in her heart she could not bring herself to believe it of him. Her somber reveries were interrupted by the approach of Kreff. “There are a couple of things I wanted to speak to you about, ‘Smooth,’” said the girl. “Fire away, Chita,” said the man, with easy familiarity. “In the first place I want you to pass the word around that the reward for bringing in that Apache is off.” “Why?” demanded the man. “That’s my business,” replied the girl, shortly. The words and her tone reminded Kreff of the dead Boss—she was her father all over—and he said no more. “The other thing is this report about cattle stealing,” she continued. “Who said there was any cattle stealin’ goin’ on?” he asked. “Luke has missed a few head off the east range.” “Oh, that kid’s loco,” said Kreff. “They’ve drifted, an’ he’s too plumb lazy to hunt ’em up.” “‘Kansas’ has missed some, too, from up around the Little Mesa on the north range,” she insisted. “I don’t know so much about Luke, he hasn’t been with us so long; but ‘Kansas’ is an old hand—he’s not the kind to do much guessing.” “I’ll look into it, Chita,” said Kreff, “an’ don’t you worry your little head no more about it.” There was something in his tone that made her glance up quickly, knitting her brows. His voice was low and soothing and protective. It didn’t sound like “Smooth” Kreff in spite of his nickname, which, she happened to know, was indicative of the frictionless technique with which he separated other men from their belongings in the application of the art of draw and stud. “You hadn’t ought to hev nothin’ to worry you,” he continued. “This here business is a man’s job. It ain’t right an’ fittin’ thet a girl should hev to bother with sech things.” “Well, that’s what I’ve got you and the other boys for, ‘Smooth.’” “Yes, but hired hands ain’t the same. You ought to be married—to a good cow man,” he added. “Meaning?” she inquired. “Me.” “Are you proposing to me, ‘Smooth’?” “I shore am. What do you say? You an’ me could run this outfit together fine, an’ you wouldn’t never hev to worry no more about nothin’.” “But I don’t love you, ‘Smooth.’”