But it was the boldest adults that Billy chose for playmates.  Texas he found immature.  Moreover, when next he came, he desired play with no one.  Summer was done.  September’s full moon was several nights ago; he had gone on his hunt with Lin, and now spelling-books were at hand.  But more than this clouded his mind, he had been brought to say good-bye to Jessamine Buckner, who had scarcely seen him, and to give her a wolverene-skin, a hunting trophy.  “She can have it,” he told me.  “I like her.”  Then he stole a look at his guardian.  “If they get married and send me back to mother,” said he, “I’ll run away sure.”  So school and this old dread haunted the child, while for the man, Lin the lucky, who suspected nothing of it, time was ever bringing love nearer to his hearth.  His Jessamine had visited Box Elder, and even said she wanted chickens there; since when Mr. McLean might occasionally have been seen at his cabin, worrying over barn-yard fowls, feeding and cursing them with equal care.  Spring would see him married, he told me.

“This time right!” he exclaimed.  “And I want her to know Billy some more before he goes to Bear Creek.”

“Ah, Bear Creek!” said Billy, acidly.  “Why can’t I stay home?”

“Home sounds kind o’ slick,” said Lin to me.  “Don’t it, now?  ‘Home’ is closer than ‘neighbor,’ you bet!  Billy, put the horses in the corral, and ask Miss Buckner if we can come and see her after supper.  If you’re good, maybe she’ll take yu’ for a ride to-morrow.  And, kid, ask her about Laramie.”

Again suspicion quivered over Billy’s face, and he dragged his horses angrily to the corral.

Lin nudged me, laughing.  “I can rile him every time about Laramie,” said he, affectionately.  “I wouldn’t have believed the kid set so much store by me.  Nor I didn’t need to ask Jessamine to love him for my sake.  What do yu’ suppose?  Before I’d got far as thinking of Billy at all—­right after Edgeford, when my head was just a whirl of joy—­Jessamine says to me one day, ‘Read that.’  It was Governor Barker writin’ to her about her brother and her sorrow.”  Lin paused.  “And about me.  I can’t never tell you—­but he said a heap I didn’t deserve.  And he told her about me picking up Billy in Denver streets that time, and doing for him because his own home was not a good one.  Governor Barker wrote Jessamine all that; and she said, ‘Why did you never tell me?’ And I said it wasn’t anything to tell.  And she just said to me, ’It shall be as if he was your son and I was his mother.’  And that’s the first regular kiss she ever gave me I didn’t have to take myself.  God bless her!  God bless her!”

As we ate our supper, young Billy burst out of brooding silence:  “I didn’t ask her about Laramie.  So there!”

“Well, well, kid,” said the cow-puncher, patting his head, “yu’ needn’t to, I guess.”

But Billy’s eye remained sullen and jealous.  He paid slight attention to the picture-book of soldiers and war that Jessamine gave him when we went over to the station.  She had her own books, some flowers in pots, a rocking-chair, and a cosey lamp that shone on her bright face and dark dress.  We drew stools from the office desks, and Billy perched silently on one.