"No, it can't be undone. Why talk about it?"

"Because I keep thinking about it. I've kept away, as you wanted me to--and because I was ashamed of myself. Honestly, I've tried to do the best I could for your people--for your father. I tried my best to be a friend. And the end of it was that I started gossip, and you told me to keep away. That was pretty hard lines. It made me angry. And then I was jealous of Dunne."

"He is going to marry Miss Burnaby."

"Lucky devil!" growled Farwell dejectedly. "Things run smooth for _him_. I'll bet he doesn't think half as much of her as I do of you."

Sheila smiled for the first time. "You wouldn't tell her that."

"I'd tell it to anybody. It's a fact. Why, look here: I'm a practical man; I've no more imagination than a stump. And yet I've lain awake nights pretending to myself that you had let me kiss you willingly.

How's that?"

Sheila laughed softly. "That's certainly going some, Mr. Farwell!"

"Well, it's what I do, anyway. It's about all the consolation I've got."

"Is it? Couldn't you get something better than that?"

"I could if you'd give me half a chance," he declared. "You turned me down hard and cold. There's a fine show for consolation, isn't there?"

"Perhaps some other girl----?" she suggested demurely.

"No!" Farwell rapped out bluntly. "I don't want any other girl. I don't like other girls. They make me tired. I'd rather work than fuss with them. It's easier. If I can't have you I don't want anybody."

Sheila laughed again. The colour was high in her cheeks, and a strange light was shining in her clear eyes. She shot a glance at him, half amused, half serious.

"And if you had me you'd be tired of me in no time. I'm just plain girl."

"Plain girl nothing! You're the prettiest----"

"I'm not; I'm not even average."

"And the best and the most sensible and the pluckiest one I ever saw,"

he pursued, unheeding. "Don't tell me; I know. I've seen whole rafts of women. Dolls! Flirts! Gigglers! Fainters! Talking slush and thinking slop! Soft, too, like dough. Eating filthy coloured and flavoured glucose by the pound. Yah! Not a sane idea, or a sound digestion, or a healthy body in the bunch. And as for dress, the average woman piles a lot of truck on her like a _klootch_ at a potlatch, and cinches herself up in a----"

"Hush!" said Sheila.

"Huh!" said Farwell. "Why shouldn't I call things by their names? I never could see----"

"You aren't supposed to see. That's plenty. I won't be lectured on the follies of my s.e.x."

"You're different from the others," said Farwell. "That's just it.

You've got ideas apart from dress and gossip, the same as a man has.

You're in good hard condition physically. You don't giggle, and t.i.tter, and make eyes, and expect a man to talk like a da--er--ah--that is, you don't expect a lot of silly compliments. I've never seen anybody like you. Talk of another girl! Bah! I couldn't stand one in the same house.

It's you or no one."

"I don't think I'd wear well, Mr. Farwell. You'd get tired of me."

"No, I wouldn't; no, I wouldn't. I know what I'm talking about. I tell you, I love you, Sheila. Do you think it's easy to say good-bye and leave you? It's the hardest job I ever had. It's--it's--oh, it's h.e.l.l, that's what it is. I used to love work just for the work's sake. But now, to think of grubbing away year after year, to get money that I can't use, that I don't want--that can't get me what I want! Oh, Lord!

the hopeless years ahead! What's the good of them? What's the use? I wish I'd never seen this place--or you."

His deep voice rose, and fell, and rumbled uncertainly, shaken by feeling. He slouched dejectedly in his saddle, looking straight ahead as if his eyes beheld the emptiness of the years to come.

"Then why do you say good-bye?" said Sheila.

Farwell started, half turning in the saddle. "Why? Because it's best.

What's the use of hanging around? I have to take my medicine, don't I?

I can take it easier away from here."

"I'm not so sure," she said hesitatingly, "that there will be any medicine to take."

Farwell's eyes opened wide as he stared at her.

"What do you mean by that? Don't fool with me, Sheila, for Heaven's sake. It's too serious a matter."

"Yes, it's serious," she agreed. She faced him frankly, the rich blood mounting beneath the tan of her cheeks. "What's the use of beating around the bush? When you kissed me I hated you. I struck you. But when Sandy came--and afterward--you seemed a good deal of a man. And so--I don't know--but it need not be good-bye for good."

CHAPTER XXIX

In the evening a stranger drove up to Chakchak. He was long and lean, and his hair was flecked with gray. His eyes were blue and clear, set rather wide apart, holding a calm, disconcerting stare. His clothes were much worn, frayed, and dusty. His movements were quiet and deliberate, and so was his speech.

"I am lookin'," he said, "for Mr. Dunne."

"That's my name," said Casey.

"Then I'd like a little private talk with you. My name is Dove; I'm actin' sheriff of this county while Fuller's sick." Evidently Acting Sheriff Dove was a man of direct speech.

"Glad to meet you, sheriff," said Casey. "Come right into my quarters.

I've guests at the house, and I'm bunking here. Have a cigar, and tell me what I can do for you."

The sheriff lit a cigar very deliberately, and carefully pinched out the flame of the match with his fingers, surest of signs of one accustomed to the plains and woods. He removed the cigar, eyed it with approval, replaced it, and turned to his host.

"That's a right good smoke. I come to see you about this killin'. This here McHale worked for you, I'm told."

"He's my foreman."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know."

"He come back here after the killin', collected up his outfit, got a pack horse, and made his get-away?"

"Yes."