"Divin' for it, Bud?" he fleered. "Better claw around there on the bottom, why don't yuh? Gold sinks, yuh know; or don't yuh? I savvy you've had lots of schoolin', but that don't mean you got good sense. What time yuh expect Bob back with the grub? Oughta be showin' up, now, most any time. I heard him say when he left he'd git here b'fore three o'clock. It's way past that now, by the sun." He squinted upward, then spat reflectively toward the pool. "Of course you'll stay and eat with us," Bud invited urbanely. "Bob promised to bring some fresh eggs and a couple of chickens." "Yeah, I know he did. I heard 'im." Butch's narrow, light blue eyes were studying Bud's black head, sleek as a wet muskrat, with some curiosity. He had expected a blasphemous series of epithets--and, fifteen minutes sooner, he probably would have heard them. He had not reckoned upon the steadying effect of that cold plunge. "Then of course you'll stay." (Privately, Bud was certain that Butch was not to be shaken off before he had accomplished his purpose; and, frankly, Bud believed that murder was his purpose.) "Might, seein' you insist. I'm purty well hooked up with grub, but my _kew_-seen don't include chicken. How yuh goin' to cook it, Bud?" "Broil mine--and rub it with butter, salt and pepper now and then. How you want yours?" "Sounds good t' me. I'll take the same." To gain time for thought, Bud curved in his body and dived, expecting that he would come up to meet a .45 slug somewhere in his brain; between the eyes, he guessed--since Butch was called a good shot. As may be surmised, Bud did considerable thinking under water, but he could not think of anything better than he was already doing, since his manner was puzzling Butch and what puzzled Butch Cassidy also worried him. Still, he might shoot, and there was just one way to find out. Bud came up, shook the water from his eyes and saw that Butch was apparently much interested in the pinned-back hatbrim. "Where'd yuh make the raise, Bud? I been kinda curious about that pin." Bud hesitated. There is a fiction that two men must never let a good woman's name pass between them, but there was nothing secret about the pin--except before Marge. Every cowpuncher who went to dances in that country should have recognized it. "Grandma Parker's," he lied shortly, and dived again as if he enjoyed diving. When he came up, Butch had laid aside the hat and was looking speculatively at Bud. "'Course, I could shoot yuh," he mused aloud. "Lots a things I could do. S'pose it'll be a bullet. Ain't yuh about ready to come out? Bob'll likely be startin' supper 'bout now. Come awn--git into yore clothes." Butch spoke as he would have admonished a small boy.