Gary never spoke of these things, and Monty Girard respected his silence. But he felt that, although he knew just what the pigs had done and how long it took to corral the horses and how many blisters it took to “scythe” the hay, he would remain in ignorance of Gary’s real life in Johnnywater Cañon, the life that was changing him imperceptibly but nevertheless as surely as old age creeps upon a man who has passed the peak of his activities. “Yuh-all better ride on over with me to my camp and stop there till you get a chance to ride in to town,” Monty said, when they were unhooking the team from the hay wagon after hauling in the last load of alfalfa. “Yuh can turn the pigs loose again and let ’em take their chances on the coyotes, same as they was doin’ when yuh come. Some one’s liable to come drivin’ in to my camp any day. But,” he added significantly, “yuh’ll set a long time before anybody comes to Johnnywater.” “That’s all right,” Gary said easily, pulling the harness off the horse he was attending to, and beginning to unbuckle the collar strap, stiff and unruly from disuse. “I’ll just stick here for awhile, anyway. Er--the potatoes need a lot of man-with-the-hoe business.” His fingers tugged at the collar strap. He would not look up from his work, though he knew that Monty was eyeing him steadily over the sweaty backs of the horses. “I’d kill that damned cat if I was you,” Monty exploded with a venom altogether foreign to his natural manner. “Waddy’d never let it near the house. He never did and I never knowed why till the other day.” Gary had one expression which usually silenced all argument. Patricia called it his stubborn smile. Dead men who have gone out fighting sometimes wear that same little smile frozen immutably upon their features. It was that smile which answered Monty Girard. Monty looked at him again, puzzled and more than slightly uneasy. “Yuh better come along with me,” he said again, persuasively, as one urges the sick to follow the doctor’s orders. “No--I think I’ll just stick around for awhile.” Having removed the collar, Gary gave the horse a slap on the shoulder that sent it off seeking a soft spot on which to roll. “Well, for God’s sake, kill that cat! By gosh, it’s enough to drive a fellow crazy. It’s wrong in the head and--and yuh know it might have hydrophoby.” Gary laughed. “Why, I couldn’t keep house without the pinto cat! That’s great business. Furnishes atmosphere and--er--entertainment.” It was perfectly apparent that Gary had some secret reason for staying. Something which he would not tell Monty Girard, although the two had become rather good friends. Monty’s face clouded; but Gary slapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Tell you what you do, old fellow. You draw me a map so I can find my way over to your place later on. And if one of these horses is any good under the saddle, I’ll keep him in the corral so I’ll have something to ride. Now I’ve got hay, the beggar ought to make out all right.”