“That’s what I mean, do.”

Dickie smiled a queer sort of smile.  He had found a listener at last.  A moment later Lorrimer’s pencil was in rapid motion.  And the reporter’s eyes shot little stabbing looks at Dickie’s unselfconscious face.  When it was over he snapped an elastic round his notebook, returned it to his pocket, and laid his hand on Dickie’s thin, tense arm.

“Come along with me, Dick,” said Lorrimer.  “You’ve won.  I’ve been fighting you and my duty to my neighbor for a fortnight.  Your waiter days are over.  I’ve adopted you.  I’m my brother’s keeper all right.  We’ll both go hungry now and then probably, but what’s the odds!  I need you.  I haven’t been able to hand in a story like that for years.  I’m a burnt-out candle and you’re the divine fire.  I’m going to educate the life out of you.  I’m going to train you till you wish you’d died young and ungrammatical in Millings.  I may not be much good myself,” he added solemnly, “but God gave me the sense to know the real thing when I see it.  I’ve been fighting you, calling myself a fool for weeks.  Come along, young fellow, don’t hang back, and for your credit’s sake close your lips so you won’t look like a case of arrested development.  First we’ll say good-bye to the hash-hole and the white apron and then I’ll take you up to your sky parlor and we’ll talk things over.”

“God!” said Dickie faintly.  It was a prayer for some enlightenment.

CHAPTER VIII

DESERTION

Hilliard rode up along Hidden Creek on a frosty October morning.  Everywhere now the aspens were torches of gold, the cottonwood trees smoky and gaunt, the ground bright with fallen leaves.  He had the look of a man who has swept his heart clean of devils...his face was keen with his desire.  He sang as he rode—­sweetly an old sentimental Spanish song, something his mother had taught him; but it was not of his mother he thought, or only, perhaps, deep down in his subconsciousness, of that early mother-worship, age-old and most mysterious, which now he had translated and transferred.

“Sweet, sweet is the jasmine flower—­
Let its stars guide thee. 
Sweet is the heart of a rose... 
Sweet is the thought of thee... 
Deep in my heart...”

The dogs were off coursing the woods that afternoon, and the little clearing lay as still as a green lake under the threatening crest of the mountain.  Cosme slipped from his horse, pulled the reins over his head, and left him to graze at will.

Miss Blake opened the ranch-house door at his knock.  She greeted him with a sardonic smile.  “I don’t know whether you’ll see your girl or not,” she said.  “Give her time to get over her tantrums.”

Cosme turned a lightning look upon her.  “Tantrums?  Sheila?”

“Oh, my friend, she has a devil of her own, that little angel-face!  Make yourself comfortable.”  Miss Blake pointed him to a chair.  “I’ll tell her you’re here.”