Never again would Samuel Bowles try to beat the cow-puncher at his own game; never would he mount a wild horse; and never would he put faith in womankind. Not out West, anyway. To be sure, Dixie Lee had saved him from the man-killer, but she had done it in such a way as to injure his pride irreparably. And if anybody had cooled his fevered brow after the accident, it certainly was not Dixie, but Brigham Clark, when he ducked his head in the horse-trough. A sudden aversion to his surroundings--a stern dislike for sentiment and the Bat Wing--came over Bowles as he lay moping in his blankets, and, rising on his elbow, he called to Brigham. "Brig," he said, "I'm going to quit this accursed ranch--would you mind catching my private horse?" "No, ner mine neither!" fulminated Brig. "I jest been waitin' fer ye to say the word--been ready myse'f fer a week!" He hopped on his horse as he spoke, and rode out into the pasture, and as he returned with their private mounts Gloomy Gus came over from the fire. "What ye goin' to do, Brig," he inquired; "quit?" "Yep," answered Brig, as he lashed their beds on his spare horse; "gittin' too bad fer me. Next thing you know, somebody'd git killed." "That's right," agreed Gus gloomily; "gittin' pretty bad around hyer. Cow-punchin' ain't what it used to be. Well, I'm sorry to see you go." He put them up a lunch and watched them off, and then turned back to his pots and kettles, grumbling and shaking his head. That was their only farewell, but as they rode out the gate, Dixie Lee appeared at the big house door and looked after them as they passed. Their mounts alone told the story of their departure, and their beds on the horse behind; but though she knew they were quitting, she stood silent and made no sign. "Want to say good-by?" inquired Brig, glancing up at her from under his hat, but Bowles did not reply. A deadly apathy had succeeded his passion, and he was sullen and incapable of higher thoughts. All he wanted now was to get away--after that he could think what to do. They turned their horses' heads toward Chula Vista, where they must go to draw their time, and after they had ridden a mile Bowles suddenly turned in his saddle--but Dixie had passed inside. A deep and melancholy sadness came over him now, and he sighed as he slumped down in his seat, but Brigham did not notice his silence. At noon they ate as they rode, getting a drink at a nester's windmill, and at night they camped by a well. Then it was that Bowles woke up from his brooding and saw that he was not alone in his mood--Brigham, too, was downcast and wrapt up in his thoughts. His mind ran quickly back to ascertain the cause, and he remembered the cherished job.