“Sanderson,” she said in an awed voice, “what have you done?  Where did you get that money?”

He told her, and her eyes dilated.  “What a reckless thing to do!” she said.  “They might have killed you!”

“Maison was havin’ thoughts the other way round,” he grinned.  “He was mighty glad I didn’t make him pay for the men he killed.”

“They’ll be after you—­they’ll kill you for that!” she told him.

“Shucks,” he laughed.  He showed her the document written and signed by Maison, and attested by Judge Graney: 

This is to certify that I have tonight paid to Deal Sanderson the sum of ninety thousand dollars for three thousand head of cattle received to my full satisfaction.

“There ain’t no comeback to that!” exulted Sanderson.  “Now we’ll start buildin’ that dam.  Mebbe, though,” he added, grinning at her, “if you knew where a mighty hungry man could find a good cook that would be willin’ to rustle some grub, there’d be——­”

She laughed.  “Right away!” she said, and went outside to perform her ablutions.

Sanderson, while she was outside, counted out ten thousand dollars and put it into a pocket.  Then he piled the remainder of the money neatly on the table.  When Mary came in, her face glowing, her hair freshly combed, he stood and looked at her with admiration in his eyes, and a great longing in his heart.

“I’ve dreamed of seein’ you that way,” he said.

“As your cook?” she demanded, reddening.

“A man’s grub would taste a heap better if his wife did the cookin’,” he said, his face sober.

“Why—­why—­” she said; “do you mean——­”

“I wouldn’t be finicky if—­if my wife was doin’ my cookin’,” he declared, his own face crimson.  “I wouldn’t kick if she gave me the same kind of grub every mornin’—­if it was she I’ve wanted.”

“Why, Sanderson!  Is this——­”

“It’s a proposal, ma’am.  I can’t say what I want to say—­what I’ve figured on sayin’ to you.  I don’t seem to be able to find the words I wanted to use.  But you’ll understand, ma’am.”

“That you want a cook more than you want a—­a wife?  Oh, Sanderson!” she mocked.

She knew that it was bashfulness that had caused him to mention the cooking; that he had introduced the subject merely for the purpose of making an oblique start; but she could not resist the temptation to taunt him.

She looked furtively at him to see how deeply she had hurt him, but was surprised to see him grinning widely.

“Women ain’t so wise as they pretend to be,” he said.  “There’s grub, an’ grub.  An’ what kind of grub is it that a man in love wants most?”

She caught his meaning, now, and blushed rosy red, drooping her eyes from his.

“That wasn’t fair, Sanderson,” she said lowly.  “Besides, a man can’t live on kisses.”

“I know a man who can,” he smiled, his eyes eager and glowing, now that he saw she was not going to repel him; “that is,” he added lowly, “if he could find a cook that would give them to him whenever he wanted them.  But it would take a lot of them, an’ they’d have to be given with the cook’s consent.  Do you think you could——­”