hile Creede looked him over in silence.

"Rufe," he said quietly, "d'ye remember that time when I picked you to
be boss sheep-wrangler, down at Bender? Well, I might as well tell you
about that now--'t won't do no harm. The old judge couldn't figure out
what it was I see in you to recommend you for the job. Like's not you
don't know yourself. _He_ thought I was pickin' you because you was a
peaceful guy, and wouldn't fight Black Tex; but that's where he got
fooled, and fooled bad! I picked you because I knew dam' well you
_would_ fight!"

He leaned far over across the table and his eyes glowed with a fierce
light.

"D'ye think I want some little suckin' mamma's-joy of a diplomat on my
hands when it comes to a show-down with them sheepmen?" he cried. "No,
by God, I want a _man_, and you're the boy, Rufe; so shake!"

He rose and held out his hand. Hardy took it.

"I wouldn't have sprung this on you, pardner," he continued
apologetically, "if I didn't see you so kinder down in the mouth about
your old man. But I jest want you to know that they's one man that
appreciates you for a plain scrapper. And I'll tell you another thing;
when the time comes you'll look jest as big over the top of a
six-shooter as I do, and stand only half the chanst to git hit. W'y,
shucks!" he exclaimed magnanimously, "my size is agin' me at every
turn; my horse can't hardly pack me, I eat such a hell of a lot, and,
well, I never can git a pair of pants to fit me. What's this here
letter?"

He picked one up at random, and Hardy ascertained that his tailor some
six months previously had moved to a new and more central location,
where he would be pleased to welcome all his old customers. But the
subject of diminutive size was effectually dismissed and, having
cheered up his little friend as best he could, Creede seized the
occasion to retire. Lying upon his broad back in his blankets, with
Tommy purring comfortably in the hollow of his arm, he smoked out his
cigarette in speculative silence, gazing up at the familiar stars
whose wheelings mark off the cowboy's night, and then dropped quietly
to sleep, leaving his partner to brood over his letters alone.

For a long time he sat there, opening them one by one--the vague and
indifferent letters which drift in while one is gone; and at last he
stole silently across the dirt floor and brought out the three letters
from his bed. There in a moment, if he had been present, Creede might
have read him