ok." He shuffled over to her and
spreading out the paper put his finger at the place whence the vital
spark had fled. "Look, spelled out jest like in a almanic. See fur
yo'se'f."

Then came her voice, cold and cutting to his hopes: "Oh, I know it's
thar well enough. What I mean is it's all made up--it's a tale."

"A tale? What's that? What do you mean by a tale? Do you mean that it
didn't happen?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. Of course it didn't happen."

He gazed at her, wondering whether or not to accept her wisdom. Then
upon the floor he flung the paper and trampled upon it. "If that's the
case, I don't want nuthin' mo' to do with it. Come a foolin' with a
man's affections thatter way. Ought to have been out yander at work half
a hour ago. Been a settin' here a thinkin' I was a gittin' facts. Man
ought to be whupped fur printin' a lie jest like fur tellin' one."

Margaret showed signs of sympathy. "Jasper, I wouldn't let it bother me
so."

He started. "Wouldn't let it bother you when you been a stuffin' yo'se'f
with a lie? Wouldn't let it bother you when a man gains yo' confidence
an' then deceives you?"

"Oh," she said, rocking herself and plying her needles, "it don't amount
to nuthin'. I wouldn't pay no attention to it."

"Look here, Margaret. Now--now, don't make light of my trouble."

Into her lap she let her knitting fall and earnestly she looked at him.
"I never make light of a real trouble, Jasper, but it seems that you do.
A real trouble is a comin' down the road, but you don't appear to mind
it. Have you seed Lije Peters sense he was here the other day?"

"No, I ain't been lookin' fur him."

"But he mout look for you."

"He won't have to look under the bed," the old man replied, slowly
walking up and down the room.

"Jasper, do you think he'll git that app'intment as deputy marshal?"

He halted and stood with his hands behind him. "I don't know, but if he
do, it means shore enough trouble." He took his hands from behind him
and looked at them. "Red on yo' hands don't make a good glove. The mo'
I talk to Jim, the preacher, the wus I hate red. Blood may be thicker
than water all right enough, but it ain't as smilin' when the sun hits
it. I don't want to fight, but--"

"Oh, yes you do," she broke in. "You'd ruther fight than eat."

A smile illumined his bronze countenance. "Wall, I ain't always hungry."
The smile passed and with countenance grave and with voice deep he said:
"Every wh