He still rode slowly, after that, but he did not bother over the figures that stood for Dilly’s debts.  He sat humped over the saddle-horn like an old man and stared at the trail and at the forefeet of Barney coming down pluck, pluck with leisurely regularity in the dust.  Just so was Charming Billy Boyle trampling down the dreams that had been so sweet in the dreaming, and leveling ruthlessly the very foundations of the fair castle he had builded in the air for Dill and himself—­and one other, with the fairest, highest, most secret chambers for that Other.  And as he rode, the face of him was worn and the blue eyes of him sombre and dull; and his mouth, that had lost utterly the humorous, care-free quirk at the corners, was bitter, and straight, and hard.

He had started out with such naive assurance to succeed, and—­he had failed so utterly, so hopelessly, with not even a spectacular crash to make the failing picturesque.  He had done the best that was in him, and even now that it was over he could not quite understand how everything, everything could go like that; how the Double-Crank and Flora—­how the range, even, had slipped from him.  And now Dill was gone, too, and he did not even know where, or if he would ever come back.

He would pay the men; he had, with a surprising thrift, saved nearly a thousand dollars in the bank at Tower.  That, to be sure, was when he had Flora to save for; since then he had not had time or opportunity to spend it foolishly.  It would take nearly every dollar; the way he had figured it, he would have just twenty-three dollars left for himself—­and he would have the little bunch of horses he had in his prosperity acquired for the pure love of owning a good horse.  He would sell the horses, except Barney and one to pack his bed, and he would drift—­drift just as do the range-cattle when a blizzard strikes them in the open.  Billy felt like a stray.  His range was gone—­gone utterly.  He would roll his bed and drift; and perhaps, somewhere, he could find a stretch of earth as God had left it, unscarred by fence and plow, undefiled by cabbages and sugar-beets (Brown’s new settlers were going strong on sugar-beets).

“Well, it’s all over but the shouting,” he summed up grimly when Hardup came in sight.  “I’ll pay off the men and turn ’em loose—­all but Jim.  Somebody’s got to stay with the Bridger place till Dilly shows up, seeing that’s all he’s got left after the clean-up.  The rest uh the debts can wait.  Brown’s mortgage ain’t due yet” (Billy had his own way of looking at financial matters) “and the old Siwash ain’t got any kick comin’ if he never gets another cent out uh Dilly.  The bank ain’t got the cards to call Dilly now, for his note ain’t due till near Christmas.  So I reckon all I got to do after I pay the boys is take m’ little old twenty-three plunks, and my hosses—­if I can’t sell ’em right off—­and pull out for God-knows-where-and-I-don’t-care-a-damn!”