"No," answered Matt heavily, as he sank into the chair, "we've lost out—and it's my fault."
There followed a short silence, Welcome muttering and twisting at his mustache, Susie peering keenly at Matt's pale face, and Matt staring at the cottonwood-trees down by the town canal.
Susie was the first to speak. Stepping quietly to Matt's side, she laid a small hand on his shoulder.
"You've lost out, Matt," said she, "and if it's your fault, as you say, then there's a good reason why you lost out. Money isn't everything in this world."
"Mebby not," spoke up Welcome dryly, "but it sartinly buys a lot o grub, an' clothes, an' critter comforts. The McReadys could stand a few o' them same comforts, I reckon. Sometimes, gal, when I see how ye're pinchin' along, an' Chub is hampered fer money to git things to do his inventin' with, I vow I can't hardly keep from hikin' fer the hills an holdin' up a few stages. It ain't right, I know, but the ole lawless feelin' bubbles up mighty strong, oncet in a while. If you an' Chub had waited an' asked fer my advice afore racin' off like ye done, Matt, mebby ye'd be hevin' a diff'rent story ter tell. Howsumever, tell the details. Ye lost, an' the biggest part o' the shock is over. The McReadys'll continner ter struggle along on bacon an' spuds, instid, as I had fondly hoped, bein' promoted to canned stuff. What ye hangin' fire fer, Matt? Go on an'——"
"You don't stop talking long enough to give him a chance, Welcome," said Susie.
"That's right," snorted Welcome; "blame me! Blame the ole ex-pirate o' the plains fer every bloomin' thing that happens. I'm expectin' ye'll be sayin' next that it's my fault kase Matt an Chub couldn't beat out Jacks an' Hawley. Don't fergit, young lady, I'm grub-staked fer the hills, an'——"
"Dry up!" cried Matt, and he said it so suddenly, and in such a tone that the old man keeled over against one of the porch-posts. Matt smiled a little. "You're doing all the talking, Welcome," he added, "and not saying anything, and here I sit with something to say and not able to get a word in edgeways."
"Git in yer word," snapped Welcome, stamping his wooden pin on the porch, "git in a dozen words, or a millyun of 'em. 'Pears like ye kin talk a heap even if ye can't do anythin'."
Welcome glared, began filling his pipe, and sat down on the top step of the porch. Before Matt could begin, Tom Clipperton hurried in at the gate and ran along the walk and up the steps. He was covered with dust, and was plainly just in from a hard, trying ride, but there was a glow in his black eyes as he reached over and grabbed Matt's hand.