“Well, you can’t make me believe that she did the pickin’, for you was tellin’ me she had good eyes.”

“I reckon it was the Doc that did the pickin’,"’ suggested Pete.

“Well, I suppose the next thing you’ll be givin’ the preacher a chanct.”

“Nope.  Next thing I’ll be givin’ Miss Gray a chanct to tell me I’m a doggone idiot—­only she don’t talk like that.”

“Then it’ll be because she don’t know you like I do.  But you’re lucky—­ No tellin’—­” Andy climbed down from the bars.

“No tellin’ what?” queried Pete.

“No tellin’ you how much I sure want you to win, pardner—­because you know it.”

Pete leapt from the top rail square on to Andy, who, taken off his guard, toppled and fell.  They rolled over and over, not even trying to miss the puddle of water beside the drinking-trough.  Andy managed to get his free hand in the mud and thought of feeding some of it to Pete, but Pete was too quick for him, squirming loose and making for the bunkhouse at top speed.

Pete entrenched himself in the far corner of the room where Bill Haskins was reading a novel,—­exceedingly popular, if the debilitated condition of the pages and covers were any criterion,—­when Andy entered, holding one hand behind him in a suspicious manner.  Pete wondered what was coming when it came.  Andy swung his arm and plugged a fair-sized mud-ball at Pete, which missed him and hit the innocent and unsuspecting Bill on the ear, and stayed there.  Bill Haskins, who was at the moment helping the hero hold a spirited pair of horses while the heroine climbed to a seat in the romantic buckboard, promptly pulled on the reins and shouted “Whoa!” and the debilitated novel came apart in his hands with a soft, ripping sound.  It took Bill several seconds to think of something to say, and several more to realize just what had happened.  He opened his mouth—­but Andy interrupted with “Honest, Bill, I wasn’t meanin’ to hit you.  I was pluggin’ at Pete, there.  It was his fault; he went and hid out behind you.  Honest, Bill—­wait and I’ll help you dig that there mud out of your ear.”

Bill shook his head and growled as he scraped the mud from his face and neck.  Andy, gravely solicitous, helped to remove the mud and affectionately wiped his fingers in Bill’s hair.

“Here—­what in hell you doin’!” snorted Bill.

“That’s right!  I was forgittin’!  Honest, Bill!”

“I’ll honest you!  I’ll give you somethin’ to forgit.”  But Andy did not wait.

A little later Bill appeared at the kitchen door and plaintively asked Ma Bailey if she had any sticking-plaster.

“Sakes alive!  Now what you done to yourself, William?”

“Nothin’ this time, Miss Bailey.  I—­I done tore a book—­and jest want to fix it.”

When Bill returned to the bunk-house with the “sticking-plaster,” Pete and Andy both said they were sorry for the occurrence, but Bill was mighty suspicious of their sincerity.  They were silent while Bill laboriously patched up the book and settled himself to take up the reins where he had dropped them.  The heroine had just taken her seat beside the driver—­when—­ “It’s a darned shame!” said a voice, Pete’s voice.