I had never heard of mounted police, but I looked grave and wooden.
"I don't care!" he cried. "I bought that gun from their sergeant."
"And a license?"
"But the cartridges," said poor Brat, "are forty-fives, and they don't fit the forty-four bore. You might let me keep my gun."
"Oh, all right." I must own I was reluctant. "Catch!"
"And the cow. Shifty Lane wouldn't pay me my wages, so I collected his cow. The police will say it served him jolly well right."
I was too hungry to relinquish real beef. "No," said I firmly, "you'd better let me look after the poor cow."
So Brat began to tell me his adventures, and how he had been fool enough to flirt with Got-Wet. I was disgusted with him, especially as Lane's half-breed daughter had been making violent love to the Indian, Tail-Feathers. I told Brat he really must remember his social position, the natural obligations of his rank, the utter folly of stooping to such a creature as Got-Wet. Indeed, I had some hope of improving my brother's morals, laying down precept and example, when Rain said the soldiers were coming. She had been worrying us all the time we talked.
I kissed poor Brat, and we promised to write letters, though neither of us thought of giving a postal address. Then I sent him away with my blessing.
"Vaya usted con Dios!"