"We don't want any banjo-pickers on this job, it's men's work!" he said. Banjo seemed to droop with humiliation. Chuckles and derisive words were heard among Chadron's train. The little musician hung his bandaged head. "Oh, you ortn't be hard on Banjo, he means well," Mrs. Chadron pleaded. "He can stay here and scratch the pigs," Chadron returned, in his brutal way. "We've got to go now, old lady, but we'll be back before morning, and we'll bring Nola. Don't you worry any more; she'll be all right--they wouldn't dare to harm a hair of her head." Mrs. Chadron looked at him with large hope and larger trust in her yearning face, and Banjo slewed his horse directly across the gate. "Before you leave, Saul, I want to tell you this," he said. "You've hurt me, and you've hurt me _deep_! I'll leave here before another hour passes by, and I'll never set a boot-heel inside of your door ag'in as long as you live!" "Oh hell!" said Chadron, spurring forward into the road. Chadron's men rode away after him, except five whom he detailed to stay behind and guard the ranch. These turned their horses into the corral, made their little fire of twigs and gleaned brush in their manner of wood-scant frugality, and over it cooked their simple dinner, each man after his own way. Banjo led his horse to the gate in front of the house and left it standing there while he went in to get his instruments. Mrs. Chadron was moved to a fresh outburst of weeping by his preparations for departure, and the sad, hurt look in his simple face. "You stay here, Banjo; don't you go!" she begged. "Saul he didn't mean any harm by what he said--he won't remember nothing about it when he comes back." "I'll remember it," Banjo told her, shaking his head in unbending determination, "and I couldn't be easy here like I was in the past. If I was to try to swaller a bite of Saul Chadron's grub after this it'd stick in my throat and choke me. No, I'm a-goin', mom, but I'm carryin' away kind thoughts of you in my breast, never to be forgot." Banjo hitched the shoulder strap of the instrument from which he took his name with a jerking of the shoulder, and settled it in place; he took up his fiddle box and hooked it under his arm, and offered Mrs. Chadron his hand. She was crying, her face in her apron, and did not see. Frances took the extended hand and clasped it warmly, for the little musician and his homely small sentiments had found a place in her heart. "You shouldn't leave until your head gets better," she said; "you're hardly able to take another long ride after being in the saddle all night, hurt like you are." Banjo looked at her with pain reflected in his shallow eyes. "The hurt that gives me my misery is where it can't be seen," he said. "Where are you goin', Banjo, with the country riled up this way, and you li'ble to be shot down any place by them rustlers?" Mrs. Chadron asked, looking at him appealingly, her apron ready to stem her gushing tears.