They rode southward side by side a space of time in silence.  Racey had nothing to say.  He was too busy speculating as to the true significance of the girl’s presence.  What did she want—­money?  These saloon floozies always did.  He hoped she wouldn’t want much.  For he ruefully knew himself to be a soft-hearted fool that was never able to resist a woman’s appeal.  He glanced at her covertly.  Her little chin was trembling.  Poor kid.  That’s all she was.  Just a kid.  Helluva life for a kid.  Shucks.

“Lookit here,” said Racey, suddenly, “you in hard luck, huh?  Don’t you worry.  Yore luck is bound to turn.  It always does.  How much you want?”

So saying he slid a hand into a side-pocket of his trousers.  The girl shook her head without looking at him.

“It ain’t money,” she said, dully.  “I make enough to keep me going.”  Then with a curious flash of temper she continued, “That’s always the way with a man, ain’t it?  If he thinks yo’re in trouble—­Give her some money.  If yo’re sick—­Give her money.  If yo’re dyin’—­Give her money.  Money!  Money!  Money!  I’m so sick of money I—­Don’t mind me, stranger.  I don’t mean nothing.  I’m a—­a li’l upset to-day.  I—­it’s hard for me to begin.”

Begin!  What was the girl driving at?

“Yes,” said she.  “It’s hard.  I ain’t no snitch.  I never was even when I hadn’t no use for a man—­like now.  But—­but you stuck up for me and my dog, and I gotta pay you back.  I gotta.  Listen,” she pursued, swiftly, “do you know who that feller was you shot?”

“No.”  Racey shook his head.  “But you don’t owe me anything.  Forget it.  I dunno what yo’re drivin’ at, and I don’t wanna know if it bothers you to tell me.  But if I can do anything—­anything a-tall—­to help you, why, then tell me.”

“I know,” she nodded.  “You’d always help a feller.  Yo’re that kind.  But I’m all right.  That jigger you plugged is Tom Jones.”

The girl looked at Racey Dawson as though the name of Tom Jones should have been informative of much.  But, Fieldings excluded, there are many Tom Joneses.  Racey did not react.

“Dunno him,” denied Racey Dawson.  “I heard his name was Nebraska.”

“Nebraska is what the boys call him,” she said.  “He used to be foreman of the Currycomb outfit south of Fort Seymour.”

“I’ve heard of Nebraska Jones and the Currycomb bunch all right,” he admitted, soberly.  “And I’d shore like to know what was the matter with Nebraska to-day.”

“So would I. You were lucky.”

Racey nodded absently.  The Currycomb outfit!  That charming aggregation of gunfighters had borne the hardest reputation extant in a neighbouring territory.  Regarding the Currycomb men had been accustomed to speak behind their hands and under their breaths.  For the Currycomb politically had been a power.  Which perhaps was the reason why, although the rustling of many and many a cow and the killing of more than one man were laid at their unfriendly door, nothing had ever been proved against them.