"Maybe. I've been a-thinkin' I'd go out there and look her up, and if she ain't married, me and her we might let bygones _be_ bygones and hitch. I could open a oyster parlor out there on the dough I've saved up; I'd dish 'em up and she'd wait on the table and take in the money. We'd do well, Duke." "I _bet_ you would." "I got the last letter she wrote--I'll let you see it, Duke." Taterleg made a rummaging in the chuck wagon, coming out presently with the letter. He stood contemplating it with tender eye. "Some writer, ain't she, Duke?" "She sure is a fine writer, Taterleg--writes like a schoolma'am." "She can talk like one, too. See--'Lander, Wyo.' It's a little town about as big as my hat, from the looks of it on the map, standin' away off up there alone. I could go to it with my eyes shut, straight as a bee." "Why don't you write to her, Taterleg?" The Duke could scarcely keep back a smile, so diverting he found this affair of the Welshman, the waitress, and the cook. More comedy than romance, he thought, Taterleg on one side of the fence, that girl on the other. "I've been a-squarin' off to write," Taterleg replied, "but I don't seem to git the time." He opened his vest to put the letter away close to his heart, it seemed, that it might remind him of his intention and square him quite around to the task. But there was no pocket on the side covering his heart. Taterleg put the letter next his lung as the nearest approach to that sentimental portion of his anatomy, and sighed long and loud as he buttoned his garment. "You said you'd put off goin' till mornin', Duke?" "Sure I will." "I'll throw my things in a sack and be ready to hit the breeze with you after breakfast. I can write back to the boss for my time." * * * * * Morning found them on the road together, the sun at their backs. Taterleg was as brilliant as a humming-bird, even to his belt and scabbard, which had a great many silver tacks driven into them, repeating the letters LW in great characters and small. He said the letters were the initials of his name. "Lawrence?" the Duke ventured to inquire. Taterleg looked round him with great caution before answering, although they were at least fifteen miles from camp, and farther than that from the next human habitation. He lowered his voice, rubbing his hand reflectively along the glittering ornaments of his belt. "Lovelace," he said. "Not a bad name." "It ain't no name for a cook," Taterleg said, almost vindictively. "You're the first man I ever told it to, and I'll ask you not to pass it on. I used to go by the name of Larry before they called me Taterleg. I got that name out here in the Bad Lands; it suits _me_, all right." "It's a queer kind of a name to call a man by. How did they come to give it to you?"