"Is it—is it M’sieu Peters?" she questioned. "That’s me," admitted Buck. "Can I have him?" He smiled at the absurdity of his question. Of course she would be glad to get rid of such a mischievous little "cuss." Rose considered. "Enter, M’sieu Peters. We will speak of it," she invited. "I shore will," was the prompt acceptance. Buck’s alacrity would have called forth hilarious chaffing from the Bar-20 punchers. It surprised himself. She set out a cup and a bottle on one end of the table and hastened to the other with an exclamation of dismay: "_Hélas, mon pain!_" and forthwith the "punch, punch!" was resumed, while Buck stared at the process and forgot to drink. "Why do you take Fritz from me?" asked Rose. Buck resumed his faculties with a grunt of disgust. "What’s th’ matter with me?" he asked himself. "Am I goin’ loco or did Johnny Nelson bite me in my sleep? What was that: ’_Take_ Fritz?’" This was seeing the matter in a different light. Buck ran his fingers through his hair and looked helpless. He poured himself a drink. "Take Fritz? Take anything she wants? Why, I’d give her my shirt. There I go again—" and he savagely, in imagination, kicked himself. "You see—I sort o’ reckoned," he faltered, "Dutch bein’ one o’ my boys—Pickles—Fritz—ought to be taken care of, an’—" "So—and you think I will not take care of him?" "Oh, no; ma’am. Never thought nothin’ o’ th’ kind. You stick yore brand on him an’ we ’ll say no more about it. Yore health, ma’am." Rose packed the dough into the pan and set it aside. Buck watched her with rueful countenance. "Now you ’ve gone an’ made her mad," he told himself. "Guess you better stick to cows, you longhorn!" She returned to her place and sat opposite him, her flour-stained arms lying along the table. "You shall take him, M’sieu Peters," she declared. To Buck’s remonstrance she nodded her head. "_Mais oui_—it is better," she insisted. "He grow up a man, a strong man—yes. Only a strong man have a chance in this so bad country. Yes, it is better, I call him." "Let me," Buck interposed, and stepping to the door he cried out a yodelling call that brought Fritz scampering into the cabin with scared face: it was his father’s well-known summons. Rose called him to her and put her arms about his shoulders. "M’sieu Peters have come to take you with him, Fritz. You will go?" she asked him. "Betcher life," said Pickles. Buck grinned and Rose laughed a little at the callous desertion. "_Eh, bien, m’sieu_—you hear?" she said to Buck, and then, to the boy: "It please you more to go with M’sieu Peters than stay with me—yes?" "Betcher life," repeated Pickles. "Yo ’re all right, but I want to be a cow-punch an’ rope an’ shoot. Some day I ’ll get that d—d ol’ Dave Owens for killin’ dad." "_Dieu!_" Rose was on her feet, gripping Fritz so hard that he squirmed. "Dave kill—Dave—"