says I. "This thing has got to be squared and I come out
here to square it. I know your record--I've heard you talk to more'n one
woman. You've got a cast iron nerve," says I; "but it won't do you no
good. Drive right on now till I tell you to stop."

"If you want to kill her too," says he, "all right--then shoot me down.
Ride on out then and explain to her what you've done. Look at her face
the way it will be then. Maybe you can tell then whether she cares
anything for me or not. Do you want to see a woman's face looking
thataway--see it all your life? And do you think you can square things
or end things by killing me or her, or both of us? Maybe you'd murder
more--who knows? We're man and wife. Would that square things, Curly? I
don't know much myself, but I don't seem to think it would."

It was curious, but it seemed like it was true--he didn't seem to have
got around to thinking of whether he was in danger or not. And I knowed
he wasn't running any cheap bluff, neither, any more than me. He looked
right on ahead and didn't pay no attention to my gun.

"Curly," says he, "you didn't make this and you can't end it. This is a
case of man and woman, the way God made them. 'Male and female made He
them.' If I died today--if she did too--I'd thank God that we had gone
this far anyways together.

"Why," says he, going on like he was half talking to hisself, "I didn't
believe in anything much--I was a atheist and a socialist--till I saw
her. I couldn't see anything much worth while in the world--till I saw
her. I didn't want to do or be anything much--till I saw her. And now, I
see it all--everything! I see how much worth while the world is, and how
much worth while she is and I am, and how much worth while other people
are too. I just didn't know it before--till I saw her. Then I knew what
life was all about. Do you think you can settle this now, or help it,
Curly? No; it's too late."

We drove on quite a little way yet.

"Curly," says he at last, "I've made my talk. If any man says I married
Bonnie Bell for anything but love--the best and cleanest of love--he's
making the cruelest mistake in the world; and he's a damned liar too.
You ask her, Curly."

"What's that?" says I. "Me ask her? I didn't come for that. I couldn't
look at her. That girl can get my goat any station. I don't want to talk
to her."

"But you wouldn't of lynched a cow thief on the range in the old days on
such a showing as this."

"Thief?" sa