"You've been spying," he said. "You've been in her room—you—"
Pierre put out his hand and stopped the word on Halby's lips.
"Slow, slow," he said; "we are both—police to-day. Voila! we must not fight. There is Throng and the girl to think of." Suddenly, with a soft fierceness, he added: "If I looked in her room, what of that? In all the North is there a woman to say I wrong her? No. Well, what if I carry her room in my eye; does that hurt her or you?"
Perhaps something of the loneliness of the outlaw crept into Pierre's voice for an instant, for Halby suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and said: "Let's drop the thing, Pierre."
Pierre looked at him musingly.
"When Throng is put to By-by what will you do?" he asked.
"I will marry her, if she'll have me."
"But she is prairie-born, and you!"
"I'm a prairie-rider."
After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself: "So quiet and clean, and the print calico and muslin, and the ivory brush!"