A little later Bill appeared at the kitchen door and plaintively asked Ma Bailey if she had any sticking-plaster.
"Sakes alive! Now what you done to yourself, William?"
"Nothin' this time, Miss Bailey. I—I done tore a book—and jest want to fix it."
When Bill returned to the bunk-house with the "sticking-plaster," Pete and Andy both said they were sorry for the occurrence, but Bill was mighty suspicious of their sincerity. They were silent while Bill laboriously patched up the book and settled himself to take up the reins where he had dropped them. The heroine had just taken her seat beside the driver—when— "It's a darned shame!" said a voice, Pete's voice.
"It sure is—and Bill jest learnin' to read. He might 'a' spelled out a whole page afore mornin'."
"I wa'n't meanin' Bill," asserted Pete.
"Oh, you won't bother Bill none. He can't hear you. His off ear is full of mud. Go on and say anything you like about him."
Bill slowly laid down his book, stepped to his bunk, and drew his six-shooter from its holster. He marched back to the table and laid the gun quite handy to him, and resumed his chair.
Bill Haskins was long-suffering—but both Andy and Pete realized that it was high time to turn their bright particular talents in some other direction. So they undressed and turned in. They had been asleep an hour or two before Bill closed his book regretfully, picked up his gun, and walked to his bunk. He stood for a moment gazing at Andy, and then turned to gaze at Pete. Then he shook his head—and a slow smile lighted his weathered face. For despite defunct mountain lions, bent nails, and other sundries, Bill Haskins liked Andy and Pete—and he knew if it came to a test of friendship that either of them would stand by him to the last dollar, or the last shot even, as he would have gladly done to help them.