"Yes," said Moffatt, "but I don't talk about it."
"Do you know, I'm always scared to pack a gun," Lafe went on pleasantly. "You'll never see me with one, Miss Hawes."
"Why not? I like them. They look so cute."
"I'm always scared somebody'll twist the sights off'n it, or take the doggone thing away and slap me."
"Some fellers do get hurt trying for to pack a gun," Steve said. He added critically: "You look stout enough."
"I'm feeling pretty tol'able fair, thanks."
When Lafe got home that night, Jim was sitting up for him, thumping his heels against the edge of the bed. He was so much concerned for his friend that he did not feel like sleep. After a tentative puff or two on a cigarette, and some coughing, he got it out. Did Lafe know that Grace Hawes—Johnson silenced him curtly, and they lay down, back to back. But Buffalo was undaunted by a sleepless night. His was a staunch soul, and early next morning he repaired to the Cowboys' Rest to interview Miss Hawes.
"You say he's been married before?" Grace cried. "Lafe Johnson is married now, you say?"
"Shore," said Jim, with a friendly smile. "That's a way ol' Lafe has. He don't mean no harm, Miss Grace. He's just naturally playful. It's sort of a habit he's got, getting married—sort of a hobby like."
"Hobby? I'll hobby him—hobby him good. How often has he had the habit? How many wives has he got now, Mr. Buf'lo?"