"Oh."
Something in the tone made the girl feel extremely foolish. Holland was deliberately strapping the brown leather jug to his saddle horn, and gathering up her reins, she mounted. "At least, Mr. Bethune is a gentleman," she emphasized the word nastily.
"An' they can't hang him for that, anyway," he flung back, and swung lightly into the saddle, "I must be goin'."
"And you don't even deny cutting the pack?"
He looked her squarely in the eyes and shook his head. "No. You kind of half believe Monk about the partnership. But you don't believe I cut that pack, so what's the use denying it?"
"I do——"
"If you should happen to get lost, don't try to outguess your compass. Always pack a little grub an' some matches, an' if you need help, three shots, an' then three more, will bring anyone that's in hearin' distance."
"I hope I shall never have to summon you for help."
"It is quite a bother," admitted the other. "An' if you'll remember what I've told you, you prob'ly won't have to. So long."
The cowboy settled the Stetson firmly upon his head, and with never a glance behind him, headed his horse down the little creek.