Muley digs a little trench with the toe of his boot, and shakes his head, sad-like— “No-o-o, I reckon not, Hen.” “Just come from there?” I asks. “Uh-huh. Listen, Hen: can you keep a secret? I know danged well that you can’t, but I got to talk to somebody. Me and Susie’s got it all framed up to get married, but she argues that I got to see Zeb. Susie ain’t of age yet, and Zeb is her guardian, Sabe? “Believe me, Henry, if I owned a penitentiary I’d hire Zeb. I’d a killed him a long time ago if it wasn’t for Susie, ’cause no sheep-man can tell me where to head in at—dang his old billy-goat face! He’s a darned——” “Not to change the subject, Muley,” says I, “but why don’t you ask him?” “I did. Do you think I’d feel this way over futures? You’re darn well right I asked him! Know what he said? He said to me, just like this: ‘Mister Bowles, you keep away from Miss Abernathy. She’s got her sights set higher than a forty-dollar puncher.’ “That’s what he said, Henry, and then I said: ‘Mister Abernathy, you’re tilting that gun for her: let her do her own shooting,” and he said, ‘Your reputation ain’t none too good, and if the Vigilantes ever organize here Susie would be a widow.’ ‘You wouldn’t know it,’ says I, ‘’cause they’d get you first.’ “Muley,” says I, “which one of you shot first?” “Neither one. I beat him on the draw, but you can’t kill your sweetheart’s guardian. It ain’t ethical, Hen. He told me that any old time I could show enough money to buy out his herd I could have Susie. I told him I wasn’t in the habit of buying either sheep or wives, and he said he knowed that without me telling him. Said that no forty-a-month puncher was ever that foolish.” “How about Susie—does she love you, Muley?” “Uh-huh,” he sighs, “she sure does. I don’t know how she can, but she does.” “I don’t know either, Muley, but it takes all kinds of folks to make a world.” “I been thinking of marriage for a long time,” he sighs, “I been afraid to ask her, but today she up and kissed me, and that settled it, Hen. Funny what a little kiss will do thataway. It makes me desperate.” “It would have done the same to me, Muley. If a girl like her kissed me I’d likely turn outlaw. You aim to go to Chicago with that train of cows?” “I can’t, Hen. I hope the old man don’t ask me to. You going?” “No. Telescope and Chuck are going, but the old man wants me to act as foreman while they’re gone—he’s going, too. I’ll ask him to let you stay, if you want me to, Muley.” “I’d love you like a brother, Hen,” he sighs, “I want to be near her.” That’s Muley. Being of a poetical temperament he has to confide in folks. If me or Telescope or Chuck got kissed by a lady we’d cherish the memory to our graves—unless it was Susie, and think of it only when alone. I ain’t so bad to look upon, and a lady couldn’t be censured for giving me a kiss, but when it comes to Telescope and Chuck—well, I suppose they’ll eventually marry beautiful women.