"Sure, he done it! Who’d yeh s’pose?" Fritz wriggled loose and stood rubbing his shoulder. Rose stood staring at him until Buck pushed him out of the room, when she sank back into her chair, covering her eyes with one shaking hand. Outside Buck was questioning Pickles. "You rid yore daddy’s bronc over, didn’t you? Can you rope him? Bully for you. Get a-goin’, then. We want to pull out o’ here right smart." Pickles was off on the run and Buck slowly entered the cabin. He went over and stood looking out of the window. "I would n’t take it so hard," he ventured. "These sort o’ mistakes is bound to happen. An’ it might a’ been worse. It might a’ been Dave went under." Rose flung out a hand towards him. "I wish—" she began passionately and then caught back the words, horrified at her thought. "Course you wish he had n’t done it. He had n’t oughter done it. Dutchy was a good man—an’ a square man—an’ Dave ain’t neither—though I shore hates to hurt yore feelin’s in sayin’ so." "_I_ know him. He is bad—bad. No one know him like me." The deep voice seemed to hold a measureless scorn. Buck wondered at this. "Well, if you know him I ’m right glad. I figgered it out you did n’t." "I know him," she repeated, and this time she spoke with a weariness that forbade further remark. They remained thus silent until Fritz rode up on the Goat, shouting out that he was ready and long since forgetful of a scene he had not understood. Buck turned from the window. "Good-bye, ma’am, I reckon we ’ll drift." Rose came forward with extended hand. "Good-bye. You will guard him? But certainly. When you ride to town, maybe you ride a little more and tell me he is well and good. It is not too far?" "Too far! Th’ Double Y ain’t none too far. I reckon you forget I come from Texas." They waved to her just before they dropped from sight down the last dip to the trail. She was watching when they came into view again at the first gap and watched them out of sight at the end of the long stretch before the bend. Then she turned back into the room and removing the demijohn and cup from the table, she stood looking at the chair where Buck had sat. "_Voilà, un homme_," she declared, patting gently the rough back of the chair: "a true man. They are not many—no." CHAPTER VIII TEX JOINS THE ENEMY