“A little like Br'er B'ar, eh, darling! You want to see the other side of the mountain.” He pressed her to him lovingly. “Of course” (with masculine inconsistency Bob was beginning to equivocate) “I may not be able to sell my water-right and the enemy may elect to play a waiting game and starve me out. In that case, it would not be fair to you to burden you with a husband whose sole assets are his dreams and his hopes.” “That makes no difference” she exclaimed passionately. “We're young. We'll fight the rest of the battle together.” “Well, there's strength in numbers, at any rate, beloved. You're my mascot and I'm bound to win.” He placed his left hand under her chin and tilted her face upward. He was stooping to seal their compact with a true lover's kiss, when the sound of footsteps startled them. Both turned guiltily, to confront Mr. Harley P. Hennage. “Hah-hah,” puffed Mr. Hennage, “at it again, eh?” He stood at the corner of the house, with his three gold teeth flashing in the moonlight. “Kill-joy!” hissed Bob McGraw. “His Royal Highness, Kill-joy the Thirteenth!” Harley P. shook a fat forefinger at the lovers. “If I was a young feller, Bob McGraw--” “Mr. Hennage, you're an old snooper, that's what you are!” cried Donna. “You're all the time snooping.” “Explain this unwarranted intrusion, Harley P. Hennage” Bob demanded, as he advanced with outstretched hand to greet the gambler. “I'll have you know that in approaching this ranch hereafter, you will be required to halt at the front gate and whistle, cough, stamp your feet, yell or fire six shots from a Colts revolver--” “You mean a presidential salute o' twenty-one twelve-inch guns” retorted Harley P. “I ain't no snooper. I've wore corns on my hands a-bangin' that there iron gate to announce my approach, an' it wasn't no use; so I just made up my mind you was ready to receive me an' I come ramblin' in. Donnie, you know I ain't one o' the presumin' kind.” He held out a hand to Bob and another to Donna. “How?” he queried, and made swift appraisal of Bob McGraw from heels to hair. “You've filled out a whole lot since the last time I seen you standin' up. How's tricks?” “Great. I'll be out in a day or two.” The gambler nodded his approval of this cheerful news. Donna brought out another chair and the trio sat in the secluded patio and talked generalities for ten minutes. Donna knew that Mr. Hennage must have some reason for calling other than a mere desire to pay his respects to Bob, and presently he unbosomed himself. “Our mutual friend, Miss Pickett, has a notice pasted up on the wall o' the post-office, advertisin' a registered letter for one Robert McGraw.” The gambler tittered foolishly. “Ain't a soul can tell Miss Pickett who the feller is or where he's at, except me an' Doc Taylor an' Miss Donna--an' we're all swore to secrecy, so I come down to scheme out a way to bell the cat--meanin' Miss Pickett” he added, apparently as an afterthought.