"You won't marry her, eh?" questioned Bud. "Your honor is so damn clean that she ain't good enough for you now. Listen to me, you breed coyote." Bud grasped Joe by both shoulders and shoved him back against the counter. "It was no fault of hers that this thing happened. I don't know her very well, and you know as well as I do that I never harmed her. But by God, if you don't marry her, I will!" Joe clawed backward for support, as Bud shook him violently. "You heard what I said, didn't yuh?" asked Bud. Joe shook himself together and tried to edge away, but Bud blocked him. "Well," Joe shrugged his shoulders, "you might ask her; mebbe she be glad to take you--now." The sneering words were hardly out of Joe's mouth before Bud smashed him full in the face. It was a punch with every ounce of Bud's muscled body behind it, and Joe went down backward, slithering his shoulders against the counter as he fell. For a moment it seemed that Bud was going to follow up the blow, but the doctor sprang in front of him. The blow had landed a trifle too high for a complete knockout, but Joe's face was a sight to behold as he got to his feet. For a moment he steadied himself and then staggered straight out of the door. "I'm sorry you did that, Conley," said the doctor. "Y'betcha!" grunted Bud. "I should have used an ax." "It does not help matters," sighed the doctor sadly. "It will not help Marie Beaudet, and will only make you an enemy of Joe Burgoyne." Norah had moved in beside old Louie and now they turned and went out through the door that led to the Beaudet living quarters. Bud looked after Norah, but she did not turn her head. "You will leave here soon?" questioned the doctor. "Yeah," nodded Bud. "I reckon I'll throw in with the bunch at Kingsburg. I'm just ornery enough to make good up there with that layout. I'm kinda curious t' know more about the kind of hootch Magee sells. She sure makes a feller throw a peculiar fit." Bud turned and walked out of the door. The sun had just gone down and it would soon be dark. A big bunch of thunder-clouds were piling up in the east, which presaged a storm within the hour. Bud sauntered down to the barracks and went to his room. His old bed-roll was there, and wrapped inside it was the outfit he had worn into the country. In a few moments he had divested himself of his soiled uniform and dressed in his old cowboy garb. His battered old sombrero felt more comfortable than the stiff-brim service hat, and he fairly luxuriated in the feel of his old blue shirt and colorless mackinaw coat. He wrote a note to Henderson and pinned it on the sleeve of his discarded uniform coat. Then he buckled on his own belt and gun, took his slicker and bed-roll under his arm and started for the stables. He was all cowboy once more.