"Whit? Oh, he's th' Britisher we took on when—when we went short a hand. He 's willin' an' strong an' learns quick, though he shore has some amazin' ideas about cows."
The momentary clouding of her face as she recalled how he had "gone short a hand," he allowed to pass without comment and went gayly on. "Pickles, he likes to hear him tell stories; fairy stories, you might call them, but they ain't like no fairy stories I ever heard. An' he tells 'em like he believes 'em. I ain't right certain he don't. Pickles does. You would n't think a kid like that would take to fairy stories, would you, ma'am?"
"No-o. Always he is for the grand minute—to be a man, to ride, to throw the rope,—like that. And to shoot—he must not shoot, M'sieu Peters."
"Well, you see, ma'am, he—you—I—" he was clearly embarrassed, but Truth and Buck were Siamese twins and always moved in pairs. Hot and uncomfortable as it made him, he had to confess. "Why, he 's just naturally boun' to shoot. Yesterday I give him a rifle an' a big bunch o' cartridges. He won't hurt nothin', ma'am."
"Mais non—I hope not. Make him to be—to be good. A strong man can be good, M'sieu Peters?"
Buck frowned in thought. "Yes," he declared. "But there 's more ways than one o' bein' good. Our way 'd never do for some places, an' their way 'd never do for us. Th' quickest man with a short gun I ever knowed an' one as has killed considerable few, first an' last, he 's a good man, ma'am. He would n't lie, nor steal, nor do a mean act. An' he never killed a man 'less he was driven to it. I say it an' I know it. I 'd trust him with my life an' my honor. An' there 's more like him, ma'am, a-plenty." He stood tensely upright, an admirable figure, deep in earnest thought. And she stood watching him, silent, studying his face, absorbing his words with a thirsty soul: the firm conviction of a man who, intuition told her, was sound to the core. "This is a rough country," he continued, "with rough ways. There 's good men an' bad men. Th' bad men are th' devil's own an' it seems like th' good men are scattered soldiers with a soldier's work to do. If a bad man takes offence an' you know he means to get you if he can, it's plumb foolish to wait till yo 're shot before you begin shootin'. He did n't begin with you an' he shore won't stop with you, an' it's your plain duty to drop him at th' first threatenin' move. Mebby you won't have to kill him, but if you must, you must. I don't say it's right but it's necessary. That's all, ma'am."
He turned to her with a whimsical smile. Her face was alight with a heartfelt gratitude, for Buck, all unknowingly, had exonerated her father, in showing her a new aspect of his doubtful matter from the view-point of a man among men. She passed her hand across her eyes in a swift gesture, then laid it for an instant firmly upon his shoulder. "Merci, mon ami," she said quietly. That shoulder, whenever he thought of it, tingled for days after, in a way that to Buck was unaccountable.
A moment later Jake appeared. "Ready in two shakes," he promised, referring to the meal.
"Can't you rustle up somethin' extra, Jake?" asked Buck. "You know we got company."
Jake assumed an air of nonchalant capability. "Well, now, I reckon," he answered; in spite of himself a hint of boasting was in his voice. "What do you say to aigs?"