“Miss Hammond, I’m makin’ bold to ask a favor of you,” he said.

Madeline smiled her willingness.

“To-night, when they’ve all shot off their chins an’ it’s quiet-like, I want you to ask me, jest this way, ‘Monty, seein’ as you’ve hed more adventures than all them cow-punchers put together, tell us about the most turrible time you ever hed.’  Will you ask me, Miss Hammond, jest kinda sincere like?”

“Certainly I will, Monty,” she replied.

His dark, seared face had no more warmth than a piece of cold, volcanic rock, which it resembled.  Madeline appreciated how monstrous Dorothy found this burned and distorted visage, how deformed the little man looked to a woman of refined sensibilities.  It was difficult for Madeline to look into his face.  But she saw behind the blackened mask.  And now she saw in Monty’s deep eyes a spirit of pure fun.

So, true to her word, Madeline remembered at an opportune moment, when conversation had hushed and only the long, dismal wail of coyotes broke the silence, to turn toward the little cowboy.

“Monty,” she said, and paused for effect—­“Monty, seeing that you have had more adventures than all the cowboys together, tell us about the most terrible time you ever had.”

Monty appeared startled at the question that fastened all eyes upon him.  He waved a deprecatory hand.

“Aw, Miss Hammond, thankin’ you all modest-like fer the compliment, I’ll hev to refuse,” replied Monty, laboring in distress.  “It’s too harrowin’ fer tender-hearted gurls to listen to.”

“Go on?” cried everybody except the cowboys.  Nels began to nod his head as if he, as well as Monty, understood human nature.  Dorothy hugged her knees with a kind of shudder.  Monty had fastened the hypnotic eyes upon her.  Castleton ceased smoking, adjusted his eyeglass, and prepared to listen in great earnestness.

Monty changed his seat to one where the light from the blazing logs fell upon his face; and he appeared plunged into melancholy and profound thought.

“Now I tax myself, I can’t jest decide which was the orfulest time I ever hed,” he said, reflectively.

Here Nels blew forth an immense cloud of smoke, as if he desired to hide himself from sight.  Monty pondered, and then when the smoke rolled away he turned to Nels.

“See hyar, old pard, me an’ you seen somethin’ of each other in the Panhandle, more ’n thirty years ago—­”

“Which we didn’t,” interrupted Nels, bluntly.  “Shore you can’t make me out an ole man.”

“Mebbe it wasn’t so darn long.  Anyhow, Nels, you recollect them three hoss-thieves I hung all on one cottonwood-tree, an’ likewise thet boo-tiful blond gurl I rescooed from a band of cutthroats who murdered her paw, ole Bill Warren, the buffalo-hunter?  Now, which of them two scraps was the turriblest, in your idee?”

“Monty, my memory’s shore bad,” replied the unimpeachable Nels.