The mustang Jack bestrode was reeking with grime and sweat,
but Jack himself was as immaculate and fresh as ever. With a delightful
affectation of embarrassment and timidity he began flicking the side
buttons of his velvet vaquero trousers with the thong of his riata.
"I reckoned to sling a word along with you before you went," he said,
looking down, "but I'm so shy that I couldn't do it in company. So I
thought I'd get it off on you while you were alone."
"We've seen you once or twice before, this morning," said Demorest
pleasantly, "and we were sorry you didn't join us."
"I reckon I might have," said Jack gayly, "if my horse had only made up
his mind whether he was a bird or a squirrel, and hadn't been so various
and promiscuous about whether he wanted to climb a tree or fly. He's
not a bad horse for a Mexican plug, only when he thinks there is
any devilment around he wants to wade in and take a hand. However, I
reckoned to see the last of you and your pile into Boomville. And I DID.
When I meet three fellows like you that are clean white all through I
sort of cotton to 'em, even if I'M a little of a brunette myself. And
I've got something to give you."
He took from a fold of his scarlet sash a small parcel neatly folded in
white paper as fresh and spotless as himself. Holding it in his fingers,
he went on: "I happened to be at Heavy Tree Hill early this morning
before sun-up.
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