“Which hoss?” asked Billy, though he felt pessimistically that he knew without being told.  The Pilgrim’s answer confirmed his pessimism.  Of course, it was the only gentle horse they had.

“Say, Billy, I forgot your tobacco,” drawled the Pilgrim, after a very short silence which Billy used for much rapid thinking.

Ordinarily, Billy would have considered the over sight as something of a catastrophe, but he passed it up as an unpleasant detail and turned to the girl.  “It’s storming something fierce,” he told her in an exceedingly matter-of-fact way, “but I think it’ll let up by daylight so we can tackle it.  Right now it’s out of the question; so we’ll have another supper—­a regular blowout this time, with coffee and biscuits and all those luxuries.  How are yuh on making biscuits?”

So he got her out of the corner, where she had looked too much at bay to please him, and in making the biscuits she lost the watchful look from her eyes.  But she was not the Flora Bridger who had laughed at their makeshifts and helped cook the chicken, and Charming Billy, raving inwardly at the change, in his heart damned fervently the Pilgrim.

In the hours that followed, Billy showed the stuff he was made of.  He insisted upon cooking the things that would take the longest time to prepare; boasted volubly of the prune pies he could make, and then set about demonstrating his skill and did not hurry the prunes in the stewing.  He fished out a package of dried lima beans and cooked some of them, changing the water three times and always adding cold water.  For all that, supper was eventually ready and eaten and the dishes washed—­with Miss Bridger wiping them and with the Pilgrim eying them both in a way that set on edge the teeth of Charming Billy.

When there was absolutely nothing more to keep them busy, Billy got the cards and asked Miss Bridger if she could play coon-can—­which was the only game he knew that was rigidly “two-handed.”  She did not know the game and he insisted upon teaching her, though the Pilgrim glowered and hinted strongly at seven-up or something else which they could all play.

“I don’t care for seven-up,” Miss Bridger quelled, speaking to him for the first time since Billy returned.  “I want to learn this game that—­er—­Billy knows.”  There was a slight hesitation on the name, which was the only one she knew to call him by.

The Pilgrim grunted and retired to the stove, rattled the lids ill-naturedly and smoked a vile cigar which he had brought from town.  After that he sat and glowered at the two.

Billy did the best he could to make the time pass quickly.  He had managed to seat Miss Bridger so that her back was toward the stove and the Pilgrim, and he did it so unobtrusively that neither guessed his reason.  He taught her coon-can, two-handed whist and Chinese solitaire before a gray lightening outside proclaimed that the night was over.  Miss Bridger, heavy-eyed and languid, turned her face to the window; Billy swept the cards together and stacked them with an air of finality.