an't hurt me again," he said
wearily.

The vague feeling of irreparable loss gripped the girl anew; but this
time she rushed on desperately, in spite of it. "Oh, why couldn't I have
met you somewhere else, under different circumstances?" she wailed. "Why
couldn't your mother have been--different?" She paused, the brown head
raised, the loosened hair tossed back in abandon. "Maybe, as you say,
it's a rainbow I'm seeking. Maybe I'll be sorry; but I can't help it. I
want them all--the things of civilization. I want them all," she
finished abruptly.

Gently the man disengaged himself. "Is that all you wished to say?"

"Yes," hesitatingly, "I guess that's all."

Ben picked up the blanket and returned it to his saddle; then he led the
horse to the girl's side. "Can I help you up?"

His companion nodded. The youth held down his hand, and upon it Florence
mounted to the saddle as she had done many times before. The thought
came to her that it might be the last time.

Not a word did Ben speak as they rode back to the ranch-house; not once
did he look at his companion. At the door he held out his hand.

"Good-bye," he said simply.

"Good-bye," she echoed feebly.

Ben made his adieu to Mrs. Baker, and then rode out to the barn where
Scotty was working. "Good-bye," he repeated. "We'll probably not meet
again before you go." The expression upon the Englishman's face caught
his eye. "Don't," he said. "I'd rather not talk now."

Scotty gripped the extended hand and shook it heartily.

"Good-bye," he said, with misty eyes.

The youth wheeled the buckskin and headed for home. Florence and her
mother were still standing in the doorway watching him, and he lifted
his big sombrero; but he did not glance at them, nor turn his head in
passing.

CHAPTER XII

A DEFERRED RECKONING

Time had dealt kindly with the saloon of Mick Kennedy. A hundred
electric storms had left it unscathed. Prairie fires had passed it by.
Only the relentless sun and rain had fastened the mark of their
handiwork upon it and stained it until it was the color of the earth
itself. Within, man had performed a similar office. The same old
cottonwood bar stretched across the side of the room, taking up a third
of the available space; but no stranger would have called it cottonwood
now. It had become brown like oak from continuous saturation with
various colored liquids; and upon its surface, indelible record of the
years, were innumerable bruises