“It’s a great country. It astonishes me at every turn, madam; but it’s too stirring for me. One gets used to things, I know, but this,” with a wave of the arm in the direction of the Reservations, “these hair-raising Indians! Bless me, and you live so close to them!”

The crisp-faced, gray-headed little lawyer smiled in a sharp, angular manner in Ma Sampson’s direction. The farmwife, arrayed in her best mission-going clothes, was ensconced in her husband’s large parlor chair, which was sizes too big for her, and smiled back at him through her glasses.

Mr. Charles Irvine, the junior partner of the firm of solicitors, Rodgers, Son, and Irvine, of London, had made his final statement with regard to Rosebud, and had now given himself up to leisure.

There had been no difficulty. Seth’s letter had stated all the facts of which he had command. It had been handed on to these solicitors. And what he had told them had been sufficient to bring one of the partners out to investigate. Nor had it taken this practical student of human nature long to realize the honesty of these folk, just as it had needed but one glance of comparison between Rosebud and the portrait of Marjorie Raynor, taken a few weeks before her disappearance, and which he had brought with him, to do the rest. The likeness was magical. The girl had scarcely changed at all, and it was difficult to believe that six years had elapsed since the taking of that portrait. After a long discussion with Seth the lawyer made his final statement to the assembled family.

“You quite understand that this case must go through the courts,” he said gravely. “There is considerable property involved. For you, young lady, a long and tedious process. However, the matter will be easier than if there were others fighting for the estate. There are no others, because the will is entirely in your favor, in case of your mother’s death. You have some cousins, and an aunt or two, all prepared to welcome you cordially; they are in no way your opponents; they will be useful in the matter of identification. The only other relative is this lost uncle. In taking you back to England I assume sole responsibility. I am convinced myself, therefore I unhesitatingly undertake to escort you, and, if you care to accept our hospitality, will hand you over to the charge of Mrs. Irvine and my daughters. And should the case go against you, a contingency which I do not anticipate for one moment, I will see that you return to your happy home here in perfect safety. I hope I state my case clearly, Mr. Sampson, and you, Mr. Seth. I,” and the little man tapped the bosom of his shirt, “will personally guarantee Miss – er – Marjorie Raynor’s safety and comfort.”

Mr. Irvine beamed in his angular fashion upon Rosebud, in a way that emphatically said, “There, by that I acknowledge your identity.”

But this man who felt sure, that, at much discomfort to himself, he was bringing joy into a poor household, was grievously disappointed, for one and all received his assurances as though each were a matter for grief. Seth remained silent, and Rube had no comment to offer. Rosebud forgot even to thank him.

Ma alone rose to the occasion, and she only by a great effort. But when the rest had, on various pretexts, drifted out of the parlor, she managed to give the man of law a better understanding of things. She gave him an insight into their home-life, and hinted at the grief this parting would be to them all, even to Rosebud. And he, keen man of business that he was, encouraged her to talk until she had told him all, even down to the previous night’s work on the banks of the White River. Like many women who trust rather to the heart than to the head, Ma had thus done for Rosebud what no purely business procedure could have done. She had enlisted this cool-headed but kindly lawyer’s sympathies. And that goes far when a verdict has to be obtained.

In response to the lawyer’s horrified realization of the dangerous adjacency of the Reservations, Ma laughed in her gentle, assured manner.

“Maybe it seems queer to you, Mr. Irvine, but it isn’t to us. We are used to it. As my Rube always says, says he, ’When our time comes ther’ ain’t no kickin’ goin’ to be done. Meanwhiles we’ll keep a smart eye, an’ ther’s allus someun lookin’ on to see fair play.’”

The old woman’s reply gave this man, who had never before visited any place wilder than a European capital, food for reflection. This was his first glimpse of pioneer life, and he warmed toward the spirit, the fortitude which actuated these people. But he made a mental resolve that the sooner Miss Raynor was removed from the danger zone the better.

There was little work done on the farm that day. When Seth had finished with the lawyer he abruptly took himself away and spent most of the day among the troops. For one thing, he could not stay in the home which was so soon to lose Rosebud. It was one matter for him to carry out the duty he conceived to be his, and another to stand by and receive in silence the self-inflicted chastisement it brought with it. So, with that quiet spirit of activity which was his by nature, and which served him well now, he took his share in the work of the troops, for which his knowledge and experience so fitted him. The most experienced officers were ready to listen to him, for Seth was as well known in those disturbed regions as any of the more popular scouts who have found their names heading columns in the American daily press.

After supper he and Rube devoted themselves to the chores of the farm, and it was while he was occupied in the barn, and Rube was attending to the milch cows in another building, that he received an unexpected visit. He was working slowly, his wounded shoulder handicapping him sorely, for he found difficulty in bedding down the horses with only one available hand. Hearing a light footstep coming down the passage between the double row of stalls, he purposely continued his work.

Rosebud, for it was she, paused at the foot of the stall in which he was working. He glanced round and greeted her casually. The girl stood there a second, then she turned away, and, procuring a fork, proceeded to bed down the stall next to him.

Seth protested at once. Rosebud had never been allowed to do anything like this. His objection came almost roughly, but the girl ignored it and went on working.

“Say, gal, quit right there,” he said, in an authoritative manner.

Rosebud laughed. But the old spirit was no longer the same. The light-hearted mirth had gone. Indeed, Rosebud was a child no longer. She was a woman, and it would have surprised these folk to know how serious-minded the last two days had made her.

“Even a prisoner going to be hanged is allowed to amuse himself as he pleases during his last hours, Seth,” she responded, pitching out the bedding from under the manger with wonderful dexterity.

Seth flushed, and his eyes were anxious. No physical danger could have brought such an expression to them. It was almost as if he doubted whether what he had done was right. It was the doubt which at times assails the strongest, the most decided. He seemed to be seeking a suitable response, but his habit of silence handicapped him. At last he said —

“But he’s goin’ to be hanged.”

“And so am I.” Rosebud fired her retort with all the force of her suppressed passion. Then she laughed again in that hollow fashion, and the straw flew from her fork. “At least I am going out of the world – my world, the world I love, the only world I know. And for what?”

Seth labored steadily. His tongue was terribly slow.

“Ther’s your friends, and – the dollars.”

“Friends – dollars?” she replied scornfully, while the horse she was bedding moved fearfully away from her fork. “You are always thinking of my dollars. What do I want with dollars? And I am not going to friends. I have no father and mother but Pa and Ma. I have no friends but those who have cared for me these last six years. Why has this little man come out here to disturb me? Because he knows that if the dollars are mine he will make money out of me. He knows that, and for a consideration he will be my friend. Oh, I hate him and the dollars!”

The tide of the girl’s passion overwhelmed Seth, and he hardly knew what to say. He passed into another stall and Rosebud did the same. The man was beginning to realize the unsuspected depths of this girl’s character, and that, perhaps, after all, there might have been another mode of treatment than his line of duty as he had conceived it. He found an answer at last.

“Say, if I’d located this thing and had done nothin’ – ” he began. And she caught him up at once.

“I’d have thanked you,” she said.

But Seth saw the unreasonableness of her reply.

“Now, Rosebud,” he said gently, “you’re talkin’ foolish. An’ you know it. What I did was only right by you. I’d ’a’ been a skunk to have acted different. I lit on the trail o’ your folk, don’t matter how, an’ I had to see you righted, come what might. Now it’s done. An’ I don’t see wher’ the hangin’ comes in. Guess you ken come an’ see Ma later, when things get quiet agin. I don’t take it she hates you a heap.”

He spoke almost cheerfully, trying hard to disguise what he really felt. He knew that with this girl’s going all the light would pass out of his life. He dared not speak in any other way or his resolve would melt before the tide of feeling which he was struggling to repress. He would have given something to find excuse to leave the barn, but he made no effort to do so.

When Rosebud answered him her manner had changed. Seth thought that it was due to the reasonableness of his own arguments, but then his knowledge of women was trifling. The girl had read something underlying the man’s words which he had not intended to be there, and had no knowledge of having expressed. Where a woman’s affections are concerned a man is a simple study, especially if he permits himself to enter into debate. Seth’s strength at all times lay in his silence. He was too honest for his speech not to betray him.

“Yes, I know, Seth, you are right and I am wrong,” she said, and her tone was half laughing and half crying, and wholly penitent. “That’s just it, I am always wrong. I have done nothing but bring you trouble. I am no help to you at all. Even this fresh trouble with the Indians is my doing. And none of you ever blame me. And – and I don’t want to go away. Oh, Seth, you don’t know how I want to stay! And you’re packing me off like a naughty child. I am not even asked if I want to go.” She finished up with that quick change to resentment so characteristic of her.

The touch of resentment saved Seth. He found it possible to answer her, which he did with an assumption of calmness he in no way felt. It was a pathetic little face that looked up into his. The girl’s anger had brought a flush to her cheeks, but her beautiful eyes were as tearful as an April sky.

“Guess we’ve all got to do a heap o’ things we don’t like, Rosie; a mighty big heap. An’ seems to me the less we like ’em the more sure it is they’re right for us to do. Some folks calls it ’duty.’”

“And you think it’s my duty to go?”

Seth nodded.

“My duty, the same as it was your duty always to help me out when I got into some scrape?”

Without a thought Seth nodded again, and was at once answered by that hollow little laugh which he found so jarring.

“I hate duty! But, since I have had your splendid example before me for six years, it has forced on me the necessity of trying to be like you.” The girl’s sarcasm was harsh, but Seth ignored it.

As she went on her mood changed again. “I was thinking while that old man was talking so much,” she said slowly, “how I shall miss Pa, and Ma, and old General. And I can’t bear the idea of leaving even the horses and cattle, and the grain fields. I don’t know whatever the little papooses at the Mission will do without me. I wonder if all the people who do their duty feel like that about things? They can’t really, or they wouldn’t want to do it, and would just be natural and – and human sometimes. Think of it, Seth, I’m going to leave all this beautiful sunshine for the fog of London just for the sake of duty. I begin to feel quite good. Then, you see, when I’m rich I shall have so much to do with my money – so many duties – that I shall have no time to think of White River Farm at all. And if I do happen to squeeze in a thought, perhaps just before I go to sleep at night, it’ll be such a comfort to think everybody here is doing their duty. You see nothing else matters, does it?”

Seth took refuge in silence. The girl’s words pained him, but he knew that it was only her grief at leaving, and he told himself that her bitterness would soon pass. The pleasure of traveling, of seeing new places, the excitement of her new position would change all that. Receiving no reply Rosebud went on, and her bitterness merged into an assumed brightness which quite deceived her companion.

“Yes,” she continued, “after all it won’t be so dreadful, will it? I can buy lots of nice things, and I shall have servants. And I can go all over the world. No more washing up. And there’ll be parties and dances. And Mr. Irvine said something about estates. I suppose I’ll have a country house – like people in books. Yes, and I’ll marry some one with a title, and wear diamonds. Do you think somebody with a title would marry me, Seth?”

“Maybe, if you asked him.”

“Oh!”

“Wal, you see it’s only fine ladies gits asked by fellers as has titles.”

The dense Seth felt easier in his mind at the girl’s tone, and in his clumsy fashion was trying to join in the spirit of the thing.

“Thank you, I’ll not ask any one to marry me.”

Seth realized his mistake.

“Course not. I was jest foolin’.”

“I know.” Rosebud was smiling, and a dash of mischief was in her eyes as she went on —

“It would be awful if a girl had to ask some one to marry her, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure.”

Seth moved out into the passage; the last horse was bedded down, and they stood together leaning on their forks.

“The man would be a silly, wouldn’t he?”

“A reg’lar hobo.”

“What’s a ’hobo,’ Seth?”

“Why, jest a feller who ain’t got no ‘savee.’”

“‘Savee’ means ’sense,’ doesn’t it?” Rosebud’s eyes were innocently inquiring, and they gazed blandly up into the man’s face.

“Wal, not exac’ly. It’s when a feller don’t git a notion right, an’ musses things up some.” They were walking toward the barn door now. Seth was about to go up to the loft to throw down hay. “Same as when I got seein’ after the Injuns when I ought to’ve stayed right here an’ seen you didn’t go sneakin’ off by y’self down by the river,” he added slyly, with one of his rare smiles.

The girl laughed and clapped her hands.

“Oh, Seth!” she cried, as she moved out to return to the house, “then you’re a regular ’hobo.’ What a joke!”

And she ran off, leaving the man mystified.

Rosebud and the lawyer left the following morning. Never had such good fortune caused so much grief. It was a tearful parting; Ma and Rosebud wept copiously, and Rube, too, was visibly affected. Seth avoided everybody as much as possible. He drove the conveyance into Beacon Crossing, but, as they were using the lawyer’s hired “democrat,” he occupied the driving-seat with the man who had brought the lawyer out to the farm. Thus it was he spoke little to Rosebud on the journey.

Later, at the depot, he found many things to occupy him and only time to say “good-bye” at the last moment, with the lawyer looking on.

The girl was on the platform at the end of the sleeping-car when Seth stepped up to make his farewell.

“Good-bye, little Rosebud,” he said, in his quiet, slow manner. His eyes were wonderfully soft. “Maybe you’ll write some?”

The girl nodded. Her violet eyes were suspiciously bright as she looked frankly up into his face.

“I hope we shall both be happy. We’ve done our duty, haven’t we?” she asked, with a wistful little smile.

“Sure,” replied Seth, with an ineffective attempt at lightness.

The girl still held his hand and almost imperceptibly drew nearer to him. Her face was lifted to him in a manner that few would have mistaken. But Seth gently withdrew his hand, and, as the train began to move, climbed down and dropped upon the low platform.

Rosebud turned away with a laugh, though her eyes filled with tears. She waved a handkerchief, and Seth’s tall, slim figure was the last she beheld of Beacon Crossing. And when the train was sufficiently far away she kissed her hand in the direction of the solitary figure still doing sentry at the extremity of the platform. Then she went into the car and gave full vent to the tears she had struggled so long to repress.

CHAPTER XIX
SETH PLAYS A STRONG HAND

It would seem that the Agent’s prompt action in summoning the aid of the troops had averted disaster. No trouble followed immediately on Seth’s drastic treatment of Little Black Fox, and the majority of the settlers put this result down to the fact of the overawing effect of the cavalry. One or two held different opinions, and amongst these were the men of White River Farm. They were inclined to the belief that the wounding of the chief was the sole reason that the people remained quiet. Anyway, not a shot was fired, much to the satisfaction of the entire white population, and, after two weeks had passed, by slow degrees, a large proportion of the troops were withdrawn.

Then followed a government inquiry, at which Seth was the principal witness. It was a mere formality by which the affair was relegated to the history of the State. The government knew better than to punish the chief. After all, Little Black Fox was a king of his race, and, however much it might desire to be rid of the turbulent Sioux, it would be a dangerous thing to act with a high hand.

But the matter served as an excuse for one of those mistakes which so often have a far-reaching effect. There was an old fort close by the Pine Ridge Reservation, one of those ancient structures erected by old-time traders. It had long been untenanted, and had fallen into decay. The authorities decided to make it habitable, and turn it into a small military post, garrisoning it with a detachment of about one hundred cavalry.

It was a mistake. And every white man of experience in the district knew that it was so. Even the Agents of the two Reservations sounded a warning note. It is fatal to attempt to bluff the Indian. Bluff and back the bluff. But a handful of cavalry is no backing to any bluff. The older settlers shook their heads; the more timorous dared to hope; even old Roiheim, who would make profit by the adjacency of soldiers, would willingly have foregone the extra trade. Rube and Seth offered no comment outside their own house; but their opinion was worth considering.

“It won’t hurt a heap this side of Christmas,” Rube said, on learning the decision.

And Seth pointed his remark.

“No, not now, I guess. Mebbe spring ’ll see things.”

These two had struck at the heart of the thing. It was late summer, and history has long since proved that Indians never go out on the war-path with winter coming on. Besides, Little Black Fox was not likely to be well of his wound for months.

So the farmers went about their work again. Rube and Seth took in their crops, and devoted spare time to building operations. And the district of White River continued its unobtrusive prosperity.

The loss of Rosebud was no small matter to Ma Sampson’s little household. But these folk were far too well inured to the hard life of the plains to voice their troubles. They sometimes spoke of her over their meals, but for the most part bore her silently in their thoughts. And the place she occupied with them was surely one that anybody might envy.

For Seth all the brightness of the last six years had gone out of his life, and he fell back on the almost stern devotion, which had always been his, toward the old people who had raised him. That, and the looking forward to the girl’s letters from England practically made up his life. He never permitted himself the faintest hope that he would see her again. He had no thought of marriage with her. If nothing else prevented, her fortune was an impassable barrier. Besides he knew that she would be restored to that life – “high-life,” was his word – to which she properly belonged. He never thought or hinted to himself that she would forget them, for he had no bitterness, and was much too loyal to think of her otherwise than as the most true-hearted girl. He simply believed he understood social distinctions thoroughly.

But if he were slow in matters of love, it was his only sloth. In action he was swift and thorough, and his perception in all matters pertaining to the plainsman’s life was phenomenal.

It was this disposition for swift action which sent him one day, after the troops had withdrawn to their new post, and the plains had returned to their usual pastoral aspect, in search of Nevil Steyne. And it was significant that he knew just when and where to find his man.

He rode into a clearing in the woods down by the river. The spot was about a mile below the wagon bridge, where the pines grew black and ragged – a touch of the primordial in the midst of a younger growth. It was noon; a time when the plainsman knew he would find the wood-cutter at leisure, taking his midday meal, or lazing over a pipe. Nor were his calculations far out.

Nevil was stretched full length beside the smouldering embers on which his coffee billytin was steaming out fragrant odors that blended pleasantly with the resinous fragrance of these ancient woods.

He looked up at the sound of horse’s hoofs, and there could be no doubt about the unfriendliness of his expression when he recognized his visitor. He dropped back again into his lounging attitude at once, and his action was itself one of studied discourtesy.

Seth did not appear to notice anything. He surveyed the clearing with a certain appreciation. The vast timbers he beheld seemed of much more consequence to him than the man who lived by their destruction. However, he rode straight over to the fire and dismounted.

“Howdy?” he said, while he loosened the cinches of his saddle.

“What’s brought you around?” asked Nevil, ungraciously enough.

Seth turned toward the trees about him.

“Pretty tidy patch,” he observed. “We’re wantin’ big timbers up at the farm. Mebbe you’d notion a contrac’?”

Nevil had noted the loosening of the cinches. He laughed shortly.

“I’m not taking contracts, thanks. But I’ll sell you wood which I cut at my pleasure.”

“Cord-wood?” Seth shook his head. “Guess we want timbers. Kind o’ buildin’ a corral around the farm.”

“Making a fort of it?”

Nevil’s blue eyes followed the upward curling wreath of smoke which dawdled on the still air above the fire.

“Yup.”

“Fancy the Injuns are on the racket?”

“Wal, ’tain’t what they’re doin’ now. But ther’ ain’t no tellin’, an’ we’re slack since the harvest. I ’lows the notion’s tol’ble. Mebbe they’ll be quiet some – now Rosebud’s gone.”

There was a quiet emphasis on Seth’s final speculation.

“I heard she’d gone away for a bit.”

Nevil looked searchingly at this man whom he hated above all men.

“Gone for good,” Seth said, with an admirable air of indifference.

“How?”

Nevil suddenly sat up. Seth noted the fact without even glancing in his direction.

“Wal, y’ see she’s got folks in England. And ther’ is a heap o’ dollars; an almighty heap. I reckon she’d be a millionairess in this country. Guess it takes a mighty heap o’ bills to reckon a million in your country.”

This expansiveness was so unusual in the man of the plains that Nevil understood at once he had come purposely to speak of Rosebud. He wondered why. This was the first he had heard of Rosebud’s good fortune, and he wished to know more. The matter had been kept from everybody. Even Wanaha had been kept in ignorance of it.

Seth seated himself on a fallen tree-trunk, and now looked squarely into the wood-cutter’s thin, mean face.

“Y’ see it’s kind o’ curious. I got that gal from the Injuns more’n six years back, as you’ll likely remember. Her folks, her father an’ her ma, was killed south o’ the Reservations. Guess they were kind o’ big folk in your country. An’ ther’ was a feller come along awhiles back all the way from England to find her. He was a swell law feller; he’d hit her trail, an’ when he comes along he said as she owned ’states in your country, a whole heap. Guess she’s to be treated like a queen. Dollars? Gee! She ken buy most everything. I ’lows they ken do it slick in your country.”

Seth paused to light his pipe. His manner was exquisitely simple. The narration of the story of the girl’s good fortune appeared to give him the keenest pleasure. Nevil removed his pipe from his lips and sat chewing the end of his ragged moustache. There was an ugly look in his eyes as he contemplated the ashes of his fire. He might have been staring at the ashes of his own fortunes. However, he contrived a faint smile when he spoke.

“Then I s’pose you’ve found out her real name?”

“Sure. Marjorie Raynor. Her father was Colonel Landor Raynor.”

“Ah.”

“An’ ther’ ain’t no question o’ the dollars. She hain’t no near folk ’cep’ an uncle, Stephen Raynor, an’ he don’t figger anyways, ’cause the dollars are left to her by will. He only comes in, the lawyer feller says, if the gal was to die, or – or get killed.”

Seth had become quite reflective; he seemed to find a curious pleasure in thus discussing the girl he loved with a man he at no time had any use for.

Nevil stared uneasily. A quick, furtive glance at Seth, who at that moment seemed to be watching his horse, gave an inkling of his passing thought. If a look could kill Seth would certainly have been a dead man.

“So the whole thing’s a dead cinch for her?”

“Yup. Now.”

Nevil gave a short laugh.

“You mean – that matter with Little Black Fox. But she brought it on herself. She encouraged him.”

Seth was round on him in a twinkling.

“Maybe he was encouraged – but not by her.”

“Who then?”

There was unmistakable derision in the wood-cutter’s tone. Seth shrugged. A shadowy smile played round his lips, but his eyes were quite serious.

“That’s it,” he said, relapsing into his reflective manner, “the whole thing’s mighty curious. Them law fellers in your country are smartish. They’ve located a deal. Don’t jest know how. They figger that uncle feller is around either this State or Minnesota – likely this one, seein’ the Colonel was comin’ this aways when he got killed. We got yarnin’, an’ he was sayin’ he thought o’ huntin’ out this uncle. I guessed ther’ wa’an’t much need, an’ it might set him wantin’ the dollars. The law feller said he wouldn’t get ’em anyhow – ’cep’ the gal was dead. We kind o’ left it at that. Y’ see the whole thing for the uncle hung around that gal – bein’ dead.”

“And you think he might have had something – ” Nevil’s words came slowly, like a man who realizes the danger of saying too much.

“Wal, it don’t seem possible, I guess. Them two was killed by the Injuns, sure. An’ she – I guess she ain’t never seen him.”

A slight sigh escaped Nevil.

“That’s so,” he said deliberately.

“Howsum, I guess I’m goin’ to look around for this feller. Y’ see Rosebud’s li’ble to like him. Mebbe he ain’t well heeled for dollars, an’ she’s that tender-hearted she might – I’ve got his pictur’. Mebbe I’ll show it around – eh, what’s up?” Seth inquired in his blandest tone.

Nevil suddenly sat up and there was a desperate look in his eyes. But he controlled himself, and, with an effort, spoke indifferently.

“Nothing. I want another pipe.”

“Ah.” Seth fumbled through his pockets, talking the while. “The pictur’ was took when he was most a boy. His hair was thick an’ he hadn’t no moustache nor nothin’, which kind o’ makes things hard. As I was sayin’, I’m goin’ to show it around some, an’ maybe some one ’ll rec’nize the feller. That’s why I got yarnin’ to you. Mebbe you ken locate him.”

As he said the last word he drew a photograph from his pocket and thrust it into Nevil’s hand.

The wood-cutter took it with a great assumption of indifference, and found himself looking down on a result of early photographic art. It was the picture of a very young man with an overshot mouth and a thin, narrow face. But, as Seth had said, he wore no moustache, and his hair was still thick.

Nevil looked long at that picture, and once or twice he licked his lips as though they were very dry. All the time Seth’s steady eyes were upon his face, and the shadow of a smile was still about his lips.

At last Nevil looked up and Seth’s eyes held his. For a moment the two men sat thus. Then the wood-cutter handed back the photograph and shifted his gaze.

“I’ve never seen the original of that about these parts,” he said a little hoarsely.

“I didn’t figger you had,” Seth replied, rising and proceeding to tighten up the cinches of his saddle preparatory to departing. “The lawyer feller gave me that. Y’ see it’s an old pictur’. ’Tain’t as fancy as they do ’em now. Mebbe I’ll find him later on.”

He had swung into his saddle. Nevil had also risen as though to proceed with his work.

“It might be a good thing for him, since Rosebud is so well disposed,” Nevil laughed; he had almost recovered himself.

“That’s so,” observed Seth. “Or a mighty bad thing. Y’ can’t never tell how dollars ’ll fix a man. Dollars has a heap to answer for.”

And with this vague remark the plainsman rode slowly away.