He caught himself back from brooding, and gave a pull at the halter by way of hinting to Barney that he need not drink the creek entirely dry—­when suddenly he quivered and stood so still that he scarcely breathed.

     “Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy? 
     Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?”

Some one at the top of the creek-bank was singing it; some one with an exceedingly small, shaky little voice that was trying to be daring and mocking and indifferent, and that was none of these things—­but only wistful and a bit pathetic.

Charming Billy, his face quite pale, turned his head cautiously as though he feared too abrupt a glance would drive her away, and looked at her standing there with her gray felt hat tilted against the sun, flipping her gloves nervously against her skirt.  She was obviously trying to seem perfectly at ease, but her eyes were giving the lie to her manner.

Billy tried to smile, but instead his lips quivered and his eyes blinked.

     “I have been to see my wife—­”

he began to sing gamely, and stuck there, because something came up in his throat and squeezed his voice to a whisper.  By main strength he pulled Barney away from the gold-tipped ripples, and came stumbling over the loose rocks.

She watched him warily, half-turned, ready to run away.  “We—­I—­aren’t you going to be nice and say good-by to me?”

He came on, staring at her and saying nothing.

“Well, if you still want to sulk—­I wouldn’t be as nasty as that, and—­and hold a grudge the way you do—­and I was going to be nice and forgiving; but if you don’t care, and don’t want—­”

By this time he was close—­quite close.  “Yuh know I care!  And yuh know I want—­you.  Oh, girlie, girlie!”

* * * * *

The colors had all left the sky, save blue and silver-gray, and the sun was a commonplace, dazzling ball of yellow.  Charming Billy Boyle, his hat set back upon his head at a most eloquent angle, led Barney from the creek up to the stable.  His eyes were alight and his brow was unwrinkled.  His lips had quite lost their bitter lines, and once more had the humorous, care-free quirk at the corners.

He slammed the stable-door behind him and went off down the street, singing exultantly: 

     “—­I have been to see my-wife,
     She’s the joy of my life—­”

He jerked open the door of the shack, gave a whoop to raise the dead, and took Dill ungently by the shoulder.

“Come alive, yuh seven-foot Dill-pickle!  What yuh want to lay here snoring for at this time uh day?  Don’t yuh know it’s morning?”

Dill sat up and blinked, much like an owl in the sunshine.  He puckered his face into a smile.  “Aren’t you rather uproarious—­for so early in the day, William?  I was under the impression that one usually grew hilarious—­”

“Oh, there’s other things besides whisky to make a man feel good,” grinned Billy, his cheeks showing a tinge of red.  “I’m in a hurry, Dilly.  I’ve got to hit the trail immediate—­and if it ain’t too much trouble to let me have that money yuh spoke about—­”