“They won't pay taxes on me no more, son.” Rowdy's eyes dwelt fondly upon Pink's cupid-bow mouth and dimples. He had never dreamed of finding Pink here; though, when he came to think of it there was no reason why he shouldn't. Pink was not like any one else. He was slight and girlish to look at. But you mustn't trust appearances; for Pink was all muscle strung on steel wire, according to the belief of those who tried to handle him. He had little white hands, and feet that looked quite comfortable in a number four boot, and his hair was a tawny gold and curled in distracting, damp rings on his forehead. His eyes were blue and long-lashed and beautiful, and they looked at the world with baby innocence--whereas a more sophisticated little devil never jangled spurs at his heels. He was everything but insipid, and men liked him--unless he chose to dislike them, when they thought of him with grating teeth. To find him bullying the Cross L boys brought a warmth to Rowdy's heart. Pink made a cigarette, and then offered Rowdy his tobacco-sack, and asked questions about the Cypress Hills country. How was this girl?--and was that one married yet?--and did the other still grieve for him? As a matter of fact, he had yet to see the girl who could quicken his pulse a single beat, and for that reason it sometimes pleased him to affect susceptibility beyond that of other men. It was after dinner when he and Rowdy went humming down to the stables, gossiping like a couple of old women over a back fence. “I see you've got Conroy's Chub yet,” Pink observed carelessly. “Oh, for Heaven's sake let up on that cayuse!” Rowdy cried petulantly. “I wish I'd never got sight of the little buzzard-head; I've had him crammed down my throat the last day or two till it's getting plumb monotonous. Pink, that cayuse never saw Oregon. He was raised right on this flat, and he belongs to old Rodway. I've got to lead him back there and turn him over to-day.” Pink took three puffs at his cigarette, and lifted his long lashes to Rowdy's gloom-filled face. “Stole?” he asked briefly. “Stole,” Rowdy repeated disgustedly. “So was the whole blame' bunch, as near as I can make out.” “We might 'a' knowed it. We might 'a' guessed Harry Conroy wouldn't have a straight title to anything if he could make it crooked. I bet he never finished paying back that money yuh lent him--out uh the kindness uh your heart. Did he?” Pink leaned against the corral fence and kicked meditatively at a snow-covered rock. “He did not, m' son. Chub's all I ever got out uh the deal--and I haven't even got him. I borrowed him from Rodway to pack my bed over--borrowed the blame' little runty cayuse that cost me sixty-four hard-earned dollars; that's what Harry borrowed of me. And every blame' gazabo on the flat wanted to know what I was doing with him!”