"Yes, and I'm shore grateful, stranger. I--I won't forget it. That dog he likes me, he does. And I'm teaching him tricks. He's awful cunnin'. And company! Say, when I'm feeling rotten that there dog _knows_, and he climbs up in my lap and licks my ear and tries his best to be a comfort. I tell you that dog likes me, and that means a whole lot--to me. I--I ain't forgetting it." Her face was dark red. She dropped her head and began to fumble with her reins. "You needn't 'a' come riding alla way out here just for this," chided Racey, feeling that he must say something to relieve the situation. "It wasn't only this," she denied, tiredly. "They was something else. And I couldn't talk to you in Farewell without him and his friends finding it out. That's why I borrowed one of Mike Flynn's hosses an' followed you thisaway--so's we could be private. Le's ride along. I expect you was going somewhere." They rode southward side by side a space of time in silence. Racey had nothing to say. He was too busy speculating as to the true significance of the girl's presence. What did she want--money? These saloon floozies always did. He hoped she wouldn't want much. For he ruefully knew himself to be a soft-hearted fool that was never able to resist a woman's appeal. He glanced at her covertly. Her little chin was trembling. Poor kid. That's all she was. Just a kid. Helluva life for a kid. Shucks. "Lookit here," said Racey, suddenly, "you in hard luck, huh? Don't you worry. Yore luck is bound to turn. It always does. How much you want?" So saying he slid a hand into a side-pocket of his trousers. The girl shook her head without looking at him. "It ain't money," she said, dully. "I make enough to keep me going." Then with a curious flash of temper she continued, "That's always the way with a man, ain't it? If he thinks yo're in trouble--Give her some money. If yo're sick--Give her money. If yo're dyin'--Give her money. Money! Money! Money! I'm so sick of money I--Don't mind me, stranger. I don't mean nothing. I'm a--a li'l upset to-day. I--it's hard for me to begin." Begin! What was the girl driving at? "Yes," said she. "It's hard. I ain't no snitch. I never was even when I hadn't no use for a man--like now. But--but you stuck up for me and my dog, and I gotta pay you back. I gotta. Listen," she pursued, swiftly, "do you know who that feller was you shot?" "No." Racey shook his head. "But you don't owe me anything. Forget it. I dunno what yo're drivin' at, and I don't wanna know if it bothers you to tell me. But if I can do anything--anything a-tall--to help you, why, then tell me." "I know," she nodded. "You'd always help a feller. Yo're that kind. But I'm all right. That jigger you plugged is Tom Jones." The girl looked at Racey Dawson as though the name of Tom Jones should have been informative of much. But, Fieldings excluded, there are many Tom Joneses. Racey did not react. "Dunno him," denied Racey Dawson. "I heard his name was Nebraska."