The cause of the quarrel? Who might tell? Who knows the list of nine thousand and nine things, any one of which may be disagreed upon by man and woman. A thousand miles back on the Sweetwater there had been a quarrel and a reconciliation. But thereafter disagreement kept obtruding itself. Then Hank Emory, arrayed in his finest trappings, swirled up to pay court, leering at Cameron’s impassive face. There would be trouble brewing there. Such a man was Emory that other men distrusted him, and women found something attractive in the rough coat of gallantry. Susan Follett spent one defiant glance at Cameron and chose to give the bully her attention. It was more fuel than Emory needed to augment his overbearing attitude. The fire guttered in the wind and took fresh life from the dry kindling. Follett shielded the blaze with his coat. “I darn near got my bellyful of misery. I ain’t no glutton fer such punishment. Whar’s all this good land, eh? Tom, somebody’s stretched the truth. I might have known.” He drove two sticks into the ground and fashioned a crane. “Susie, pass out the big kettle.” There was a splashing of mud and the profane shouts of men; through the downpour appeared Emory and his brothers. The horses reared and sat wildly on their haunches. Follett muttered his disapproval. Cameron moved not an inch. “Wet weather, wet weather!” cried the leading Emory. “Didn’t I tell you Californy was yore proper station? Thar’s gold and sun to be had.” “Tarnation!” muttered Follett. “Do ye take me for an old fool?” Emory guffawed and favored Cameron with a sharp, sudden look of malice, then doffed his hat in a gesturing circle to Susan Follett who once more appeared at the front oval. “Lady, it’s shore damp for purty faces.” She smiled. Cameron, looking up, saw that the smile was a little pinched about the corners of the mouth. Her answer, though welcoming, lacked warmth. Any less obtuse individual than Hank Emory might have noticed it. But he grinned broadly and swung nearer the wagon. “Well, yore at the end of the trip, Susie. Ain’t it about time fer an answer?” Follett started up with a burning stick in his fist. “Susie?” he said softly to Cameron. “Thar’s liberty for you.” Cameron laid on a restraining hand. “Let it run a little longer,” he counseled, and pulled at the yellow mustache. The girl shook her head and seemed to draw away. “Mister Emory, aren’t you a little hurried?” “Haw! That’s the same song you guv me last time. I ain’t to be put off. Hyar I be, a two-fisted fellow, good enough for a lot of women. Ain’t I good enough for you? Sartain, I can fight harder’n that fruz-faced Methodist stickin’ so close to yore paw.”