“I suppose this _isn't_ quite conventional,” she conceded, as if the thought had just then occurred to her. “But, thank goodness, out here there aren't any conventions. Every one lives as every one sees fit. It isn't the best thing for some people,” she added drearily. “Some people have to be bolstered up by conventions, or they can't help miring in their own weaknesses. But we don't; and as long as we understand--” She looked to him for confirmation. “As long as we understand, why, it ain't anybody's business but our own,” he declared steadily. She seemed relieved of some lingering doubt. “That's exactly it. I don't know why I should deny myself a friend, just because that friend happens to be a man, and I happen to be--married. I never did have much patience with the rule that a man must either be perfectly indifferent, or else make love. I'm so glad you--understand. So that's all settled,” she finished briskly, “and I find that, as I said, it isn't at all necessary for me to unburden my soul.” They stood quiet for a moment, their thoughts too intangible for speech. “Come inside, won't you?” she invited at last, coming back to everyday matters. “Of course you're hungry--or you ought to be. You daren't run away from my cooking this time, Mr. Cowboy. Manley will be back soon, I think. I must get some lunch ready.” Kent replied that he would stay outside and smoke, so she left him with a fleeting smile, infinitely friendly and confiding and glad. He turned and looked after her soberly, gave a great sigh, and reached mechanically for his tobacco and papers; thoughtfully rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and held the match until it burned quite down to his thumb and fingers. “Pals!” he said just under his breath, for the mere sound of the word. “All right--pals it is, then.” He smoked slowly, listening to her moving about in the house. Her steps came nearer. He turned to look. “What was it you wanted to see Manley about?” she asked him from the doorway. “I just happened to wonder what it could be.” “Well, the Wishbone needs men, and sent me over to tell him he can go to work. The wagons are going to start to-morrow. He'll want to gather his cattle up, and of course we know about how he's fixed--for saddle horses and the like. He can work for the outfit and draw wages, and get his cattle thrown back on this range and his calves branded besides. Get paid for doing what he'll have to do anyhow, you see.” “I see.” Val pushed back the rebellious lock of hair. “Of course you suggested the idea to the Wishbone. You're always doing something--” “The outfit is short-handed,” he reiterated. “They need him. They ain't straining a point to do Man a favor--don't you ever think it! Well--he's coming,” he broke off, and started to the gate.