Lucky Lin bestirred him over his work, his plans, his ranch on Box Elder that was one day to be a home for his lady. He came and went, seeing his idea triumph and his girl respected. Not only was she a girl, but a good shot too. And as if she and her small, neat home were a sort of possession, the cow-punchers would boast of her to strangers. They would have dealt heavily now with the wretch who should trifle with the water-tank. When camp came within visiting distance, you would see one or another shaving and parting his hair. They wrote unnecessary letters, and brought them to mail as excuses for an afternoon call. Honey Wiggin, more original, would look in the door with his grin, and hold up an ace of clubs. “I thought maybe yu' could spare a minute for a shootin'-match,” he would insinuate; and Separ now heard no more objectionable shooting than this. Texas brought her presents of game--antelope, sage-chickens--but, shyness intervening, he left them outside the door, and entering, dressed in all the “Sunday” that he had, would sit dumbly in the lady's presence. I remember his emerging from one of these placid interviews straight into the hands of his tormentors. “If she don't notice your clothes, Texas,” said the Virginian, “just mention them to her.” “Now yer've done offended her,” shrilled Manassas Donohoe. “She heard that.” “She'll hear you singin' sooprano,” said Honey Wiggin. “It's good this country has reformed, or they'd have you warblin' in some dance-hall and corrupt your morals.” “You sca'cely can corrupt the morals of a soprano man,” observed the Virginian. “Go and play with Billy till you can talk bass.” But it was the boldest adults that Billy chose for playmates. Texas he found immature. Moreover, when next he came, he desired play with no one. Summer was done. September's full moon was several nights ago; he had gone on his hunt with Lin, and now spelling-books were at hand. But more than this clouded his mind, he had been brought to say good-bye to Jessamine Buckner, who had scarcely seen him, and to give her a wolverene-skin, a hunting trophy. “She can have it,” he told me. “I like her.” Then he stole a look at his guardian. “If they get married and send me back to mother,” said he, “I'll run away sure.” So school and this old dread haunted the child, while for the man, Lin the lucky, who suspected nothing of it, time was ever bringing love nearer to his hearth. His Jessamine had visited Box Elder, and even said she wanted chickens there; since when Mr. McLean might occasionally have been seen at his cabin, worrying over barn-yard fowls, feeding and cursing them with equal care. Spring would see him married, he told me. “This time right!” he exclaimed. “And I want her to know Billy some more before he goes to Bear Creek.” “Ah, Bear Creek!” said Billy, acidly. “Why can't I stay home?”