For very shame, trampled in the dust as he had been, Tom could not leave the subject alone.  Besides, he had to make sure that the story would be kept secret.

“The way of it was like this:  After I shot Buck Weaver, we saw they would kill me if I was caught; so we figured I had better hunt cover.  ’Course I knew they wouldn’t hurt a girl any,” he got out sullenly.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” answered the other coldly.

“You ain’t expecting to tell the boys about me shooting Buck, are you?” Dixon asked presently, hating himself for it.  But he was afraid of Phil and his father.  They had told him plainly what they thought of him for leaving the girl in the lurch.  If they should discover that he had done the shooting and left her to stand the blame for it, they would do more than talk.

“I certainly ought to tell them.  Likely they may want to see you about it, and hear the particulars.”

“There ain’t any need of them knowing.  If Phyl had wanted them to know, she could have told them,” said Tom sulkily.  He had got carefully to his feet, and was nursing his face with a handkerchief.

“We’ll go and break our news together,” suggested the other cheerfully.  “You tell them you think Weaver is in her room, and I’ll tell them my little spiel.”

“There’s no need telling them about me shooting Weaver, far as I can see.  I’d rather they didn’t know.”

“For that matter, there’s no need telling them your notions about where Buck is right now.”

Tom said nothing, but his dogged look told Larrabie that he was not persuaded.

“I tell you what we’ll do,” said Keller, then:  “We’ll unload on them both stories, or we won’t tell them either.  Which shall it be?”

Dixon understood that an ultimatum was being served on him.  For, though his former foe was smiling, the smile was a frosty one.

“Just as you say.  I reckon it’s your call,” he acquiesced sourly.

“No—­I’m going to leave it to you,” grinned Larrabie.

The man he had thrashed looked as if he would like to kill him.  “We’ll close-herd both stories, then.”

“Good enough!  Don’t let me keep you any longer, if you’re in a hurry.  Now we’ve had our little talk, I’m satisfied.”

But Dixon was not satisfied.  He was stiff and sore physically, but mentally he was worse.  He had played a poor part, and must still do so.  If he went down to the ranch with his face in that condition, he could not hope to escape observation.  His vanity cried aloud against submitting to the comment to which he would be subjected.  The whole story of the thrashing would be bound to come out.

“I can’t go down looking like this,” he growled.

“Do you have to go down?”

“Have to get my horse, don’t I?”

“I’ll bring it to you.”

“And say nothing about—­what has happened?”

“I don’t care to talk of it any more than you do.  I’ll be a clam.”