"What's this I hear?" she shrilled. "What's the meaning of it, Lafe Johnson? Where're you going?"
"I've got to go to the ranch to-day, Grace."
"You mean you're through with me, Lafe Johnson?"
"I wouldn't go to put it that way, Grace. Don't take on so."
"I will—I will! I don't care who hears. You're a villain—that's what you are. You promised last night—you said—"
"A man had ought to be sociable with ladies," said Lafe, busy with the cinch.
"You done run off a man who was worth two of you any day, Lafe Johnson. And then you go to leave me. You leave me here to be laughed at. You ... here, wait. Don't go, Lafe. Lafe, I didn't mean ... please, Lafe ... oh, please ..."
Johnson and Buffalo ambled side by side along a mesa covered with mesquite. Jim had promise of a job from Floyd and assured Johnson of one, also. Both planned to eschew the frivolities of city life henceforth. Buffalo asked suddenly: "What made you draw off so sudden that way, Lafe?"
Johnson grinned at him.
"It's right queer, Jim," he said. "But when she saw us off to go to fighting, some way I begun to think of my li'l' sister. You knew my sister Kitty, back in Texas, didn't you, Buf'lo? She's got yallow hair."