After supper came general relaxation around the camp-fire. The men, who had all day been strung to a keen pitch of nervous energy, lounged in loose, picturesque uncouthness, while each began to unravel his own lively miscellany of information or invention. There was jest, laughter, spinning of yarns, singing of songs. As Peter lay in the fire-light, smoking his brier-wood, he noticed that the man next him spent a great deal of time poring over a letter, holding it close to the blaze, now at arm’s-length, which was hardly surprising, considering the penmanship of the more common variety of _billet-doux_. The man was plainly disappointed that Peter would not notice or comment. Finally he folded it up, and with sentimental significance returned it to the left side pocket of his flannel shirt, and remarked to Peter, “It’s from her.” “Indeed,” said Peter, who had not the faintest notion who “her” could be. “Let me congratulate you.” “Yes, sir,” and there was conviction in the cow-puncher’s tone; “it’s from old man Kinson’s girl, up to the Basin, and the parson’s goin’ to give us the life sentence soon. A man gets sick o’ helling it all over creation.” He rolled a cigarette, lit it, took a puff or two, then turned to Peter, as one whose acquaintance with the broader side of life entitled him to speak with a certain authority. “Is it that, or is it that we’re getting on, a little long in the tooth, logy in our movements?” “I think we’re just sick of helling it.” Peter looked towards the star that last night had been the beacon towards which he and Judith had scaled the heights. “Yes, we get sick of helling it after we’ve turned thirty.” “Then I can’t be making a mistake. If I thought it was because I was getting on, I’d stampede this here range. It don’t seem fair to a girl to allow that you’re broke, tamed, and know the way to the corral, when it’s just that you’re needin’ to go to an old man’s home.”