“Miss Hammond, she’s safe an’ almost well, an’ what I feared most ain’t so, thank God,” he cried.  “Sure I’ll never be able to pay you for all you’ve done for her.  She’s told me how she was dragged down here, how Gene tried to save her, how you spoke up for Gene an’ her, too, how Monty at the last throwed his guns.  Poor Monty!  We were good friends, Monty an’ I. But it wasn’t friendship for me that made Monty stand in there.  He would have saved her, anyway.  Monty Price was the whitest man I ever knew.  There’s Nels an’ Nick an’ Gene, he’s been some friend to me; but Monty Price was—­he was grand.  He never knew, any more than you or Bill, here, or the boys, what Bonita was to me.”

Stillwell’s kind and heavy hand fell upon the cowboy’s shoulder.

“Danny, what’s all this queer gab?” he asked.  “An’ you’re takin’ some liberty with Miss Hammond, who never seen you before.  Sure I’m makin’ allowance fer amazin’ strange talk.  I see you’re not drinkin’.  Mebbe you’re plumb locoed.  Come, ease up now an’ talk sense.”

The cowboy’s fine, frank face broke into a smile.  He dashed the tears from his eyes.  Then he laughed.  His laugh had a pleasant, boyish ring—­a happy ring.

“Bill, old pal, stand bridle down a minute, will you?” Then he bowed to Madeline.  “I beg your pardon, Miss Hammond, for seemin’ rudeness.  I’m Danny Mains.  An’ Bonita is my wife.  I’m so crazy glad she’s safe an’ unharmed—­so grateful to you that—­why, sure it’s a wonder I didn’t kiss you outright.”

“Bonita’s your wife!” ejaculated Stillwell.

“Sure.  We’ve been married for months,” replied Danny, happily.  “Gene Stewart did it.  Good old Gene, he’s hell on marryin’.  I guess maybe I haven’t come to pay him up for all he’s done for me!  You see, I’ve been in love with Bonita for two years.  An’ Gene—­you know, Bill, what a way Gene has with girls—­he was—­ well, he was tryin’ to get Bonita to have me.”

Madeline’s quick, varying emotions were swallowed up in a boundless gladness.  Something dark, deep, heavy, and somber was flooded from her heart.  She had a sudden rich sense of gratitude toward this smiling, clean-faced cowboy whose blue eyes flashed through tears.

“Danny Mains!” she said, tremulously and smilingly.  “If you are as glad as your news has made me—­if you really think I merit such a reward—­you may kiss me outright.”

With a bashful wonder, but with right hearty will, Danny Mains availed himself of this gracious privilege.  Stillwell snorted.  The signs of his phenomenal smile were manifest, otherwise Madeline would have thought that snort an indication of furious disapproval.

“Bill, straddle a chair,” said Danny.  “You’ve gone back a heap these last few months, frettin’ over your bad boys, Danny an’ Gene.  You’ll need support under you while I’m throwin’ my yarn.  Story of my life, Bill.”  He placed a chair for Madeline.  “Miss Hammond, beggin’ your pardon again, I want you to listen, also.  You’ve the face an’ eyes of a woman who loves to hear of other people’s happiness.  Besides, somehow, it’s easy for me to talk lookin’ at you.”