“You didn’t.  But—­”

“That’s what the goat done to the stone wall.  Look out you don’t bust yore horns, too.”

“Meanin’?”

“Meanin’ you’ll knock ’em off short before you get anything out o’ me
I don’t want to tell you.  And I tell you flat I ain’t talkin’ over
Jack Harpe with you.”

“Scared to?” he hazarded, boldly.

“You can give it any name you like.  Pull up a chair.  Dinner’s most ready.  They’s enough for two.”

Despite the fact that he had just dined at the hotel he accepted her invitation in the hope that she could be persuaded to talk.  And after dinner he smoked several cigarettes with her—­still hoping.  Finally, finding that nothing he could say was of any avail to move her, he took up his hat and departed.

“Don’t go away mad,” she called after him.

“I ain’t,” he denied, and went on, her mocking laughter ringing in his ears.

After Racey was gone out of sight Marie turned back into her little house.  There was no laughter on her lips or in her eyes as she sat down in a chair beside the table and stared across it at the chair in which Racey had been sitting.

“He’s a nice boy,” she whispered under her breath, after a time.  “I wish—­I wish—­”

But what it was she wished it is impossible to relate, for, instead of completing the sentence, she hid her face in her hands and began to cry.

Early next morning Racey Dawson and Swing Tunstall rode out of town by the Marysville trail.  They were bound for the Bar S and a job.

* * * * *

“What have you been drinkin’, Racey?” demanded Mr. Saltoun, winking at his son-in-law and foreman, Tom Loudon.

The latter did not return the wink.  He kept a sober gaze fastened on Racey Dawson.

Racey was staring at Mr. Saltoun.  His eyes began to narrow.  “Meanin’?” he drawled.

“Now don’t go crawlin’ round huntin’ offense where none’s meant,” advised Mr. Saltoun.  “But you know how it is yoreself, Racey.  Any gent who gets so full he can’t pick out his own hoss, and goes weaving off on somebody else’s is liable to make mistakes other ways.  You gotta admit it’s possible.”

The slight tinge of red underlying Racey’s heavy coat of tan acknowledged the corn.  “It’s possible,” he admitted.

Mr. Saltoun saw his advantage and seized it.  “S’pose now this is another mistake?”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” said Racey.  “You said you had jobs for a couple of handsome young fellers like us.  Aw right.  We go to work.  We ride for you six months for nothing.”

“Huh?” Mr. Saltoun and Tom Loudon stared their astonishment.

“Oh, the cat’s got more of a tail than that,” said Racey.  “You don’t pay us a nickel for those six months provided what I said will happen, don’t happen.  If it does happen like I say, you pay each of us two hundred large round simoleons per each and every month.”