're worse than Mrs. Gillespie for gettin' yore own way.
Hmp! Devil him into a fight an' then let him hand me a lacin'. I reckon
not."

"He'll figure that since he can lick you, he can make out to look after
himself with the other boys."

"He ain't licked me yet, an' that's only half of it. He ain't a-goin'
to."

Fuming at this outrageous proposition put up to him, the puncher jingled
away and left his triple-chinned friend.

Blister grinned. The seed he had scattered might have fallen among the
rocks and the thorns, but he was willing to make a small bet with himself
that some of it had lit on good ground and would bear fruit.

CHAPTER XVII

THE BACK OF A BRONC

The bunkhouse of the Slash Lazy D received Bob Dillon gravely and with
chill civility. He sat on his bunk that first evening, close enough to
touch a neighbor on either hand, and was left as completely out of the
conversation as though he were a thousand miles away. With each other the
riders were jocular and familiar. They "rode" one another with familiar
jokes. The new puncher they let alone.

Bob had brought some cigars with him. He offered them eagerly to the
chap-clad youth on his right. "Take one, won't you? An' pass the others
round."

The name of the cowboy was Hawks. He looked at the cigars with disfavor.
"I reckon I'll not be carin' for a cigar to-night, thank you," he said
slowly.

"Perhaps the others--if you'll pass them."

Hawks handed the cigars to a brick-red Hercules patching his overalls.
From him they went to his neighbor. Presently the cheroots came back to
their owner. They had been offered to every man in the room and not one
had been taken.

Bob's cheeks burned. Notice was being served on him that the pleasant
give-and-take of comradeship was not for him. The lights went out early,
but long into the night the boy lay awake in torment. If he had been a
leper the line could scarcely have been drawn more plainly. These men
would eat with him because they must. They would sleep in the same room.
They would answer a question if he put it directly. But they would
neither give nor accept favors. He was not to be one of them.

Many times in the months that were to follow he was to know the sting of
shame that burned him now at memory of the scene between him and Jake
Houck at Bear Cat. He tossed on the bunk, burying his face in the
blankets in a vain effort to blot out the picture. Why had he not shot
the fellow? Why, at l