"Don't you get no gray hair about me," growled Long Pete. "I know what it means, d--n him!" A smile flitted across his face. "But I shore has to laugh at th' son-of-a-gun! An' me thinkin' he was a prospector, an' loco! I'd feel ashamed of myself if I really _did_ think he was a prospector. You see, I've seen prospectors before. You mustn't mind me makin' a break like that once in a while; I've had to fool so many folks I can't sort of get my bearin's now. I'd be prouder of gettin' a man like him than anythin' I ever done. Did you gimme plenty of grub? All right; I'm movin' on now. So long." "So long; an' good luck," replied Ackerman, going north along the creek. Long Pete rode carefully up his own watery way, thoroughly alert and closely scrutinizing both banks. "Settin' on a cayuse, out here, don't set well on my stummick," he muttered uneasily. "I'd mebby be more prominent cavortin' around on a mountain top, or ridin' upside down on th' under side of a cloud, but I ain't hankerin' after no prominence. Nope; I'm a shrinkin' wiolet. An' _splash! splash!_ says th' bronc. _Splash! splash!_ reg'lar as a watch, for th' whole wide world to hear, observe, an' think about. Long Pete, yo're a fool. Long Pete, yo're several, all kinds of fools. What you should oughta do is picket th' bronc an' perceed with more caution, on yore belly like a silent worm, or at least on yore kneecaps an' han's, like a--like a--a--who th' h--l cares what? Day after day we been temptin' Providence. 'Hurry up!' says he. 'Hurry be d--d!' thought I. But we hurried. Yes sir. But it must be did. D--n th' _must_. All my sinful life there was a _must_ or a _mustn't_. It's a _must-y_ world. He-he! That ain't a bad one, or I'm a liar! "All serene. Both banks lovely. Lush grass an' mosquitoes an' _flies_. _Splash! Splash!_ _Ker_-splash! _Ker_-splash! Slop inter it, bronc. Don't mind my stummick. Keep lungin' on, pluggin' right ahead, stubborn as th' workin's of hell. _Long Pete! Long Pete! Ker-splash! Here's Long Pete!_ Tell him, bronc; grease th' chute for yore boss. Even th' frogs got more sense; they shut up when they hears us. It's a gamble, bronc; a toss-up. Our friend, Mr. James Ackerman, says: 'Here, Long Pete. We done reached th' partin' of th' ways. He could 'a' left th' crick any place, now. Over east yonder is where he was burned out. You take that way, an' I'll go on north where I reckon I know mebby where he oughta be.' That's what he _said_, bronc. But what he kept a damp, dark, deep secret was: 'But I know he ain't. He's east, where he knows th' lay of th' land. Where he feels at home. An' anyhow, Long Pete, you know too d--d much about our affairs.' He's a friend of ours, bronc; we know that--but he's a better friend of hisself.