“Ole Clubfoot Sneed lives up there,” asserted Jimmy, pointing toward the distant ridge.  “I been up there.”

“Yes.  And your father saved you from a whipping.  Uncle Frank was very angry.”

“I got that new rifle, anyhow,” declared Little Jim.

“And they lived happily ever afterward,” said Bartley.

“Huh!  That’s just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me sometimes.  I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights.  Fairy stories make me tired.”

“Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up,” teased Dorothy.

“You ain’t growed up yourself, anyhow,” retorted Jimmy.  “Girls ain’t growed up till they git married.”

Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers.  Little Jim frowned.  Why couldn’t they talk about something worth listening to?  Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different objects, and opening and closing the empty magazine.  Finally he loaded it.  His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do with Western stories.  Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of keeping silent.  He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but Bartley’s presence rather awed him.

Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted.  However, there was the solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition.  While he knew there was no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was.  He debated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain lion.  Finally he decided he would hunt bear.  He waited for an opportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty rifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the spring.  A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through!  Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbits to elephants.

Some time passed before Dorothy missed him.  She called.  There was no reply.  “He won’t go far,” she assured Bartley who rose to go and look for Jimmy.

Bartley sat down by the spring again.  He questioned Dorothy in regard to ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like.  Quite impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley were quite content, so long as they were moderately successful.  Of course, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would revolutionize ranch life, eventually.  Why, a wealthy rancher of San Andreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those little machines!

Bartley smiled.  “They’ve come to stay, no doubt.  But I can’t reconcile automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards.  I shan’t have an automobile snorting and snuffing through my story.”

“Your story!”

“I really didn’t mean to speak about it.  But the cat is out of the bag.  I’m making notes for a Western novel, Miss Gray.  I confess it.”

“Confession usually implies having done something wrong, doesn’t it?”