Dode Sinclair turned on his heel. At the door he hesitated, then looked back at the thin bent figure by the window.
“Maybe the prairie won’t let you,” he said.
When he had gone Joe Gilchrist stood motionless, staring at the door.
“What the dickens does he mean by that?” he growled, and frowned as he lit his pipe.
Joyce Gilchrist was perched on the corral-poles when Dode came out to her.
“He won’t listen to me,” he said, tracing dejected patterns in the dust with his spur. “Says you’ve got to have your chance.”
“Chance?—what chance?” Joyce looked down at him wonderingly.
“Chance of getting a better man than me.”
The girl was at his side in a flash, looking into his face with anxious interrogation.
“Dode, Dode, what do you mean?—what does he mean?”