"My name in Wilfred Compton. I--I have a letter or two in my pocket that I got a long time ago; they'd tell something about me but I'd rather not show 'em, as they're private--" "From your gal, I reckon?" asked Willock more mildly. "Yes," he answered gloomily. "Carried 'em as long as a year?" "Nearly two years." "Mean to still lug 'em around?" "Of course I'm going to keep 'em." "Well, I don't deny THAT'S pretty favorable. Now look here, son, I've been half-crazy from lonesomeness, and I don't believe I've got the heart to send you away. That gal of ours--she's just a kid, you understand.... Now you wouldn't be taking up no idea that she was what you'd classify as a young lady, or anything like that, eh?" "Of course not--she's fifteen or sixteen, I should think. Upon my honor, Willock, any thought of sentiment or romance is a thousand miles from my mind." "Yes, just so. But such thoughts travels powerful fast; don't take 'em long to lap over a thousand mile." "But it's because she IS a young girl, fresh and unartificial as the mountain breezes, that I want to be with her for a little while--yes, get to know her, if I may." Willock turned to the taciturn old man standing a little behind him. "Bill Atkins, what do you say?" "I say, fire him and do it quick!" was the instant rejoinder, accompanied by threatening twitchings of the huge white mustache. Willock was not convinced. "Son, if you sets here till we have had our breakfast, and has held a caucus over you, I'll bring you the verdict in about an hour. If you don't like that, they's nothing to do but put out for your ranch." "I go on duty at seven," replied the young man composedly, "but I have a friend riding the line that'll stay with it till I come. So I'll wait for your caucus." "That friend--one of them devils I shot at the other day?" Wilfred Compton smiled with sudden sunniness. "Yes." Somewhere beneath the immense whiskers, an answering smile slipped like a breeze, stirring the iron-gray hair. "I kinder believe in you, son! Nobody can't gainsay that you've played the man in this matter. Now, just one thing more. You must swear here before me, with Bill Atkins for an unwilling witness, that should we let you make the acquaintance of our little gal, and should you get to be friends, you two, that the very fust minute it comes to you that she ain't no little gal, but is in the way of being food for love--Bill Atkins, air I making myself plain?" "You ain't," returned the old man sourly. "You're too complicated for ordinary use." "Then YOU tell him what I mean."