The Long Shadow | Page 7

hours that followed, Billy showed the stuff he was made of. He
insisted upon cooking the things that would take the longest time to
prepare; boasted volubly of the prune pies he could make, and then set
about demonstrating his skill and did not hurry the prunes in the
stewing. He fished out a package of dried lima beans and cooked some
of them, changing the water three times and always adding cold water.
For all that, supper was eventually ready and eaten and the dishes
washed--with Miss Bridger wiping them and with the Pilgrim eying
them both in a way that set on edge the teeth of Charming Billy.
When there was absolutely nothing more to keep them busy, Billy got
the cards and asked Miss Bridger if she could play coon-can--which
was the only game he knew that was rigidly "two-handed." She did not
know the game and he insisted upon teaching her, though the Pilgrim
glowered and hinted strongly at seven-up or something else which they
could all play.

"I don't care for seven-up," Miss Bridger quelled, speaking to him for
the first time since Billy returned. "I want to learn this game
that--er--Billy knows." There was a slight hesitation on the name,
which was the only one she knew to call him by.
The Pilgrim grunted and retired to the stove, rattled the lids
ill-naturedly and smoked a vile cigar which he had brought from town.
After that he sat and glowered at the two.
Billy did the best he could to make the time pass quickly. He had
managed to seat Miss Bridger so that her back was toward the stove
and the Pilgrim, and he did it so unobtrusively that neither guessed his
reason. He taught her coon-can, two-handed whist and Chinese solitaire
before a gray lightening outside proclaimed that the night was over.
Miss Bridger, heavy-eyed and languid, turned her face to the window;
Billy swept the cards together and stacked them with an air of finality.
"I guess we can hit the trail now without losing ourselves," he remarked
briskly. "Pilgrim, come on out and help me saddle up; we'll see if that
old skate of yours is able to travel."
The Pilgrim got up sullenly and went out, and Billy followed him
silently. His own horse had stood with the saddle on all night, and the
Pilgrim snorted when he saw it. But Billy only waited till the Pilgrim
had put his saddle on the gentlest mount they had, then took the reins
from him and led both horses to the door.
"All right," he called to the girl; helped her into the saddle and started
off, with not a word of farewell from Miss Bridger to the Pilgrim.
The storm had passed and the air was still and biting cold. The eastern
sky was stained red and purple with the rising sun, and beneath the feet
of their horses the snow creaked frostily. So they rode down the coulée
and then up a long slope to the top, struck the trail and headed straight
north with a low line of hills for their goal. And in the hour and a half
of riding, neither spoke a dozen words.
At the door of her own home Billy left her, and gathered up the reins of

the Pilgrim's horse. "Well, good-by. Oh, that's all right--it wasn't any
trouble at all," he said huskily when she tried to thank him, and
galloped away.
CHAPTER III.
Charming Billy Has a Fight.
If Billy Boyle had any ideals he did not recognize them as such, and he
would not have known just how to answer you if you had asked him
what was his philosophy of life. He was range-bred--as purely Western
as were the cattle he tended--but he was not altogether ignorant of the
ways of the world, past or present. He had that smattering of education
which country schools and those of "the county seat" may give a boy
who loves a horse better than books, and who, sitting hunched behind
his geography, dreams of riding afar, of shooting wild things and of
sleeping under the stars.
From the time he was sixteen he had lived chiefly in tents and
line-camp cabins, his world the land of far horizons, of big sins, and
virtues bigger. One creed he owned: to live "square," fight square, and
to be loyal to his friends and his "outfit." Little things did not count
much with him, and for that reason he was the more enraged against the
Pilgrim, because he did not quite know what it was all about. So far as
he had heard or seen, the Pilgrim had offered no insult to Miss
Bridger--"the girl," as he called her simply in his mind. Still, he had felt