Just a hair and he'd have got me, but my voice, and not the warning, Caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my name, Reined his pony round and fanned it in the bright and silent morning, Back across the sunlit Rio up the trail on which he came. He had passed his word to cross it--I had passed my word to get him-- We broke even and we knew it; 'twas a case of give and take For old times. I could have killed him from the brush; instead, I let him Ride his trail--I turned--my pardner flung his arm and stretched awake; Saw me standing in the open; pulled his gun and came beside me; Asked a question with his shoulder as his left hand pointed toward Muddy streaks that thinned and vanished--not a word, but hard he eyed me As the water cleared and sparkled in the shallows of the ford. _Henry Herbert Knibbs._ THE DANCE AT SILVER VALLEY _DON'T you hear the big spurs jingle?_ _Don't you feel the red blood tingle?_ _Be it smile or be it frown,_ _Be it dance or be it fight,_ _Broncho Bill has come to town_ _To dance a dance tonight._ Chaps, sombrero, handkerchief, silver spurs at heel; "Hello, Gil!" and "Hello, Pete!" "How do you think you feel?" "Drinks are mine. Come fall in, boys; crowd up on the right. Here's happy days and honey joys. I'm going to dance tonight." (On his hip in leathern tube, a case of dark blue steel.) Bill, the broncho buster, from the ranch at Beaver Bend, Ninety steers and but one life in his hands to spend; Ready for a fight or spree; ready for a race; Going blind with bridle loose every inch of space. Down at Johnny Schaeffer's place, see them trooping in, Up above the women laugh; down below is gin. Belle McClure is dressed in blue, ribbon in her hair; Broncho Bill is shaved and slick, all his throat is bare. Round and round with Belle McClure he whirls a dizzy spin. Jim Kershaw, the gambler, waits,--white his hands and slim. Bill whispers, "Belle, you know it well; it is me or him. Jim Kershaw, so help me God, if you dance with Belle It is either you or me must travel down to hell." Jim put his arm around her waist, her graceful waist and slim. Don't you hear the banjo laugh? Hear the fiddles scream? Broncho Bill leaned at the door, watched the twirling stream. Twenty fiends were at his heart snarling, "Kill him sure." (Out of hell that woman came.) "I love you, Belle McClure." Broncho Bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem.