"Tell Applegate to look me up in Mexico if he wants me," he said.
Joyce would not let it go at that. She made him shake hands. He was in the saddle, and her eyes lifted to his and showered gratitude on him.
"We'll never forget you—never," she promised. "And we do so hope you'll be prosperous and happy."
He grinned down at her sheepishly. "Same to you, Miss," he said; and added, with a flash of audacity, "To you and Dave both."
He headed south, the others north.
From the hilltop Dave looked back at the squat figure steadily diminishing with distance. Shorty was moving toward Mexico, unhasting and with a certain sureness of purpose characteristic of him.
Joyce smiled. It was the first signal of unquenchable youth she had flashed since she had been trapped into this terrible adventure. "I believe you admire him, Dave," she mocked. "You're just as grateful to him as I am, but you won't admit it. He's not a bad man at all, really."
"He's a good man gone bad. But I'll say this for Shorty. He's some man.
He'll do to ride the river with."
"Yes."
"At the fire he was the best fighter in my gang—saved one of the boys at the risk of his own life. Shorty's no quitter."