Pink’s eyes widened; he looked like a child listening to a story of goblins.  “If I can help you, Mr. Weary, I will,” he promised generously.

“Will yuh be my friend?  Will yuh let me lean on yuh in my dark hours?” Weary’s voice shook with emotion.

Pink said that he would, and he seemed very sympathetic and anxious for Weary’s safety.  Several times during their shift Weary rode around to where Pink was sitting uneasily his horse, and spoke feelingly of his crime and the black trouble that loomed so closer and told Pink how much comfort it was to be able to talk confidentially with a friend.

When Pink went out that night to stand his shift, he found Weary at his side instead of Cal.  Weary explained that Cal was feeling pretty bum on account of that fall he had got, and, as Weary couldn’t sleep, anyway, he had offered to stand in Cal’s place.  Pink scented mischief.

This night the moon shone brightly at intervals, with patches of silvery clouds racing before the wind and chasing black splotches of shadows over the sleeping land.  For all that, the cattle lay quiet, and the monotony of circling the herd was often broken by Weary and Pink with little talks, as they turned and rode together.

“Mr. Perkins, fate’s a-crowding me close,” said Weary gloomily, when an hour had gone by.  “I feel as if—­what’s that?”

Voices raised in excited talk came faintly and fitfully on the wind.  Weary turned his horse, with a glance toward the cattle, and, beckoning Pink to follow, rode out to the right.

“It’s the posse!” he hissed.  “They’ll go to the herd so look for me.  Mr. Perkins, the time has come to fly.  If only I had a horse that could drift!”

Pink thought he caught the meaning.  “Is—­is mine any good, Mr. Weary?” he quavered.  “If he is, you—­you can have him.  I—­I’ll stay and—­and fool them as—­long as I can.”

“Perkins,” said Weary solemnly, “you’re sure all right!  Let that posse think you’re the man they want for half an hour, and I’m safe.  I’ll never forget yuh!”

He had not thought of changing horses, but the temptation mastered him.  He was riding a little sorrel, Glory by name, that could beat even the Happy Family itself for unexpected deviltry.  Yielding to Pink’s persuasions, he changed mounts, clasped Pink’s hand affectionately, and sped away just as the posse appeared over a rise, riding furiously.

Pink, playing his part, started toward them, then wheeled and sped away in the direction that would lead them off Weary’s trail.  That is, he sped for ten rods or so.  After that he seemed to revolve on an axis, and there was an astonishing number of revolutions to the minute.

The stirrups were down in the dark somewhere below the farthest reach of Pink’s toes—­he never once located them.  But Pink was not known all over Northern Montana as a “bronco-peeler” for nothing.  He surprised Glory even more than that deceitful bit of horseflesh had surprised Pink.  While his quirt swung methodically, he looked often over his shoulder for the posse, and wondered that it did not appear.