ys," he observed, grinning cheerfully
as he tucked it away in his shaps, "my luck always did run in
bunches--_I'm rich_!"

He strode briskly over to the corral, caught up a fresh horse and,
riding back to the camp, began to go through his war bag hurriedly. He
was in the midst of a feverish packing, throwing away socks and
grabbing up shirts, when a gay laugh from the house attracted his
attention. He listened for a moment abstractedly; then he flew at his
work once more, dumping everything he had out on his bed and stuffing
what he needed back into his war bag; but when there came a second
peal of laughter, he stopped and craned his neck.

"Well--I'll--be--dam'd!" he muttered, as he recognized the voice, and
then he flew at his work again, manhandling everything in sight. He
was just roping his enormous bed, preparatory to depositing it in the
bunk-house, when Kitty Bonnair stepped out of the house and came
toward him, walking like a boy in her dainty riding suit. There was a
great noise from the branding pen and as she approached he seemed very
intent upon his work, wrestling with his bundle as if he were
hog-tying a bull and using language none too choice the while, but
Kitty waited patiently until he looked up.

"Why, howdy do, Mr. Creede," she cried, smiling radiantly. "I got a
new idea for my play just from seeing you do that work."

The cowboy regarded her sombrely, took a nip or two with his rope's
end, jerked the cords tight, and sat down deliberately on the bundle.

"That's good," he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. "How's
tricks?" There was a shadow of irony in his voice but Kitty passed it
by.

"Fine and dandy," she answered. "How are you coming?"

"Oh, pretty good," he conceded, rising up and surveying the
battlefield, "and I reckon I ain't forgot nothin'," he added
meaningly. He kicked his blanket roll, tied his war bag behind the
saddle, and hitched up his overalls regally. "Sorry I ain't goin' to
see more of you," he observed, slipping his six-shooter into his
shaps, "but--"

"What, you aren't _going_?" cried Kitty, aghast. "Why, I came all the
way down here to see you--I'm writing a play, and you're the hero!"

"Ye-es!" jeered Creede, laughing crudely. "I'm Mary's little lamb that
got snatched baldheaded to make the baby laugh."

"You're nothing of the kind," retorted Kitty stoutly. "You're the hero
in my play that's going to be _acted_ some day on the stage. You kill
a Mexican, and wi