"But this!" the other breathed, plunging again into the bag. "This here is—"
He broke short. "Why, you pore son-of-a-gun!" he whispered as he produced his collar.
Originally it had been a three-inch poke collar, but it was bent and broken and smeared on one side with a broad patch of dirty brown.
"Gosh a'mighty, Tommy, you've gone an' crippled your collar!" Bruce said in rebuke.
"Crippled is right, an' that ain't all! Kind of a sick lookin' pinto, he is, with that bay spot on him." He looked up foolishly. "I ought to put that plug in my pocket. You see, I rode out fast, an' this collar an' my eatin' tobacco was in th' bottom of th' bag tied on behind my saddle. Nig sweat an' it soaked through an' wet th' tobacco an' ... desecrated my damn collar!"
He rose resolutely.
"A li'l thing like that can't make me quit!" he cried. "I rode this here thing with its team-mate yesterday. I won't be stampeded by no change in color. I've done my family wash in every stream between th' Spanish Peaks an' California. I won't stop at this!"
He strode from the bunk house and Bruce, looking through the window, saw him lift a bucket of water from the well and commence to scrub his daubed collar vigorously.
Smoke rose from the chimney of the ranch house and through the kitchen doorway Bayard saw a woman pass with quick, intent stride. It was Mrs. Boyd. She and Mrs. Weyl had arrived the day before to set the house aright and to deck the rooms in mountain greenery—mistletoe, juniper berries and other decorative growth.
The new bunkhouse, erected when plans for the wedding were first made, had been occupied for the first time by Bruce and Tommy that night. Tommy was to return in the spring and put his war-bag under the bunk for good, because Bruce was going in for more cattle and would be unable to handle the work alone.