what they done to you and
Bob, if it takes every hoof I own."

Thurston told him he hoped they would be caught and--yes, hanged; though
he had never before advocated capital punishment.

But when he thought of Bob, the care-naught, whole-souled fellow.

He tried not to think of him, for thinking unmanned him. He had the
softest of hearts where his friends were concerned, and there were
times when he felt that he could with relish officiate at the Wagners'
execution.

He fought against remembrance of that day; and for sake of diversion he
took to studying a large, pastel portrait of Mona which hung against the
wall opposite his bed. It was rather badly; done, and at first, when he
saw it, he laughed at the thought that even the great, still plains of
the range land cannot protect one against the ubiquitous picture
agent. In the parlor, he supposed there would be crayon pictures of
grandmothers and aunts-further evidence of the agent's glibness.

He was glad that it was Mona who smiled down at him instead of a
grand-mother or an aunt. For Mona did smile, and in spite of the cheap
crudity the smile was roguish, with little dimply creases at the corners
of the mouth, and not at all unpleasant. If the girl would only look
like that in real life, he told himself, a fellow would probably get to
liking her. He supposed she thought him a greater coward than ever now,
just because he hadn't got killed. If he had, he would be a hero now,
like Bob. Well, Bob was a hero; the way he had jumped up and begun
shooting required courage of the suicidal sort. He had stood up and
shot, also and had succeeded only in being ridiculous; he hoped nobody
had told Mona about his hitting that steer. When he could walk again he
would learn to shoot, so that the range stock wouldn't suffer from his
marksmanship.

After a week of seeing only Mrs. Stevens or sympathetic men
acquaintances, he began to wonder why Mona stayed so persistently away.
Then one morning she came in to take his breakfast things out. She did
not, however, stay a second longer than was absolutely necessary, and
she was perfectly composed and said good morning in her most impersonal
tone. At least Thurston hoped she had no tone more impersonal than that.
He decided that she had really beautiful eyes and hair; after she had
gone he looked up at the picture, told himself that it did not begin
to do her justice, and sighed a bit. He was very dull, and even her
companionship, h